


Pleasure and Desire

by Naja_Nivea



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naja_Nivea/pseuds/Naja_Nivea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turning into a Noah had not been easy for Tyki. For him it had taken months, months of pain that made him writhe and cry, months and fear that left him trembling, months of feeling his mind break fissure by fissure and his sanity slowly slip away like water rolling on a deck. A history of Cyril and Tyki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's a Pleasure to Meet You

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thought I would try my hand at some -man fiction. I sat on my ass watching all of them a week ago and reading all the comics, while at work so thought, meh, this might be fun.
> 
> Keep in mind this is probably AU in some respects and there are some warnings:
> 
> 1\. Elements of Catholic Dogma present, especially in later chapters.
> 
> 2\. No slash.
> 
> 3\. Self-harm but not played for depression or teenage angst, trust me it's germane to the plot
> 
> 4\. General dark themes such as death, murder, and torture.

**Lisbon Portugal, Present Day**

Cyril swirled the cognac in his snifter with his gloved hand, allowing his eyes to trail from the fire to balcony and the water beyond. The one saving grace of having to keep a house in the middle of the city was the view. Cyril loved the open water, it calmed him in a way few other things could. Always he had lived by the coast and the feel of the waves beneath him was like a mother rocking his crib. He needed to take his family out on the sea next weekend. It had been too long and he didn't think Wisely had ever been. He pulled his attention back to his "guest" Barão Alejandro de Condeixa and his incessant prattle. In a way it worse than listening to Road expound on the wonderfulness of Allen Walker. But he had to keep him entertained till Tyki got back from investigating the man's home and most likely his wife. Tyki's beautiful face and amiable character could be such an asset sometimes, not to mention his ability to walk through walls.

He supposed the man's discourse was pleasant enough if unimaginative but then again, he was old money, a landed aristocrat that never had be any good at anything and everyone always listened to him. He purposely relaxed his jaw before he started grinding his teeth in anger. He hated people like that or rather had always envied them which led to hate. He had had to work his and Tyki's fingers to bone to get through University then law school and get a good job. But he hadn't been able to really get power until he married Tricia and her landed ties. She and the patronage of her family had been the final piece in his plan to pull himself and his brother out of gutter and into the good life. And they had made it. He was the Secretary of Defense and due to some finagling, also controlled the ports and tariff stations in and out of Portugal. Only the King and the Prime Minster had more power than him and the Prime Minster was a fool that did whatever he suggested. And still men like this looked down their noses at him.

"Shall we get down to business, Mr. Kamelot?" so the useless blob of humanity finally decided to get to his point.

"So this wasn't just a social call, Dom Condeixa?" he turned and quirked the left side of his mouth up and answered in perfectly accented upper class English. This man was pure Portuguese Nobility, complete with the ugly sash for no reason. English subjugation of Portugal's economy and Cyril's own ties to the UK, being half Irish though everyone thought him properly British, had always made ones like this wary of him. The  _half breed upstart_ was what they called him behind his back. But while this man had a name but no money, Cyril had money and was making a name.

"No, why on Earth would I want to socialize with the likes of you, Minster?" Cyril cocked his head to the side and watched, noting the use of his political title rather than peerage title. "I have found out certain information about you and that slick brother of yours," the derision even more evident towards Tyki than himself. He would allow the slight to stand for now after all his brother could be a painfully, lazy wretch sometimes. He never could understand how Tyki was always ambling around, enjoying the moment, never planning for the future or securing what would be needed, never really caring for that matter if he slept in a feather bed or a nasty tick mattress. But then again, he supposed that was the difference between Pleasure and Desire. "Certain things that I suspect you wouldn't want getting out."

Ah so he was after black mail money, how droll. "Such as?"

"I have found out for a fact that you lied about your history in London," the man steepled his fingers from his seat. The glow from the fire caught on his liver spots. "You are not in fact the son of a merchant from Oporto and the daughter of the Gentry. I couldn't uncover your true parentage but I suspect it is something much more base," he now dropped his voice, "even that your parents came from Cheap Side and worked in trade."

Cyril came and sat across of the man, setting his brandy on the table, crossing his legs and leaning back. He eyed the Baron, who seemed altogether too smug for his own good. What an intemperate fool. "Who else have you told?" he asked, voice even.

"No one yet, but you should surely believe I will tell everyone, including your little wife and her family, if you do not meet my demands," he stood and turned his back, hands locked behind him, affecting a commanding air. Others might have been frightened but Cyril simply watched. "I will blunt, Mr. Kamelot, if that is actually your name. You will pay me 1000 réis a month or I will destroy you."

Cyril couldn't take it anymore and laughed. "You are absolutely wrong and I will pay you nothing."

"Excuse me," the man stuttered turning towards him then whipped back around as the door behind him slammed shut of apparently of its own accord. There was no reason to risk waking Road or Tricia with this discussion.

"You heard me clearly, Dom Condeixa, I will not give you a single cent and you are completely wrong about my background."

"You continue to try and stick with your lie," he bristled, "when I told you I have proof, irrefutable proof?"

"No, I won't stick with the lie but you're still wrong," he answered in his clipped British accent before dropping back into the lilting Brogue of the Cork docks he and Tyki had originally come from. "I canna' tell you what my sire did because I have no idea who he was. My mother was Portuguese dock yard whore that fucked anything with a guinea to spare. I only consider myself Irish because that happens to be where she birthed me but from her tellin' I was conceived between the gunwhales of ship in Spithead," the Baron looked appalled. "So no, bucko, I'm not half gentry and polite folk don't talk about me mum's trade so you are completely wrong."

"This is worse than I thought," Condeixa huffed. "Why would you tell me this?"

"I have no reason not to," he looked at his gloved hand, and noticed a bit of dirt on it from where he had touched the mantle earlier. He would have to have a word with the cleaning staff. He always wore gloves in company, to cover the scars on his hands from years as a day laborer and even longer as top-man and rigger, not to mention his flat knuckles. They had been worn down by repeated bare knuckle fighting to make sure he and Tyki had enough to get by when they were growing up. No, he chose to keep that concealed from these close minded snobs, who thought anyone not pedigreed like a dog was useless. Little did they realize his genetic pedigree was 7000 years old.

"That makes no sense."

"Actually it makes perfect sense," Cyril rose but only to retrieve his brandy and take a sip. "You see, you come into my home, where my family sleep, insult me and my brother, then have the audacity to try and extort money from me. You are a fool and I don't suffer fools unless I'm related to them." Jasdevi and Skin immediately popping into is mind.

"And what are you going to do to stop me?" Condeixa crossed his arms over his chest. "I now have the upper hand, Minister, and unless you make yourself agreeable to me, you will be ruined along with your family and your no account brother."

"It's simple really, I'm gonna' split your fucking head open," he answered with a smile.

"That's not funny," the man looked worried.

"It wasn't meant to be," he held his hand out and watched the astonishment on the Baron's face as the fireplace poker glided from its holder into his out stretched hand.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Tyki hummed "Danny Boy" to himself as he strolled home along the winding paths of Lisbon. He took the long way and was rewarded with a gelato shop still being open. He always took the long way so he could avoid the water. Cyril may love the sea but he hated, feared it, despised it, and wanted nothing to do with it. So they compromised and he agreed to live in his brother's house but his room was facing the street so he didn't have to be reminded it was there.

He slipped into the house through the servant's entrance and didn't even make it out of the kitchen before Snow, his brother's Great Pyrenees met him at the door to glare suspiciously at him before wagging his tail in greeting. He had thought Cyril had lost his damn mind when he had come home with the large white puppy two and a half years ago and said it was a gift for Tricia but now he understood. The akuma posing as servants around the house kept her safe from Exorcists but Snow guarded her from the mundane threats like burglars and rapists. He pat the giant, white beast on the head in greeting and continued to the main part of the house, noticing that Cyril's study was still lit though the door was closed. He decided he was in the mood for company and wanted to know how the meeting went so he knocked and slowly opened the door with his free hand. Normally he would just walk through it but the Baron might still be there and that would never do. He was met with the sight of his brother, pushing his blood covered hair off his face and yanking a fire place poker out of the back of the Baron's skull. There was blood splatters all over the study and furniture.

"Welcome home, Laddy boy, how was your evening?" Cyril looked up and smiled.

"Not as violent as yours it seems," he answered and stepped over what might have been a piece of brain.

"What did you find out?" his brother asked as he meticulously removed the blood from his poker.

"He has a cute cat, bad locks, his wife has lumpy breast, and is a dreadful bore in bed. I had to fake and orgasm to get out of there. Oh and he's planning on black mailing you but I guess you figured that one out already." Tyki noticed that Cyril was making no attempt to hide his brogue and answered in kind.

"Aye, I did at that," he picked up a glass of brandy and noticed the same time Tyki did that there was a chunk of hair in it. "Bloody hell," he spat and flung the glass at the fire, causing it to spark and burn brighter for a moment. He then turned and started kicking the CLEARLY dead man. "You stupid, fucking, motherless son of a whore!" Cyril's moods could be mercurial at best and downright dangerously bi-polar at worst, even before he became a Noah.

"How can you be motherless and a son of a whore?" Tyki asked him as he licked his ice cream cone then handed it to Cyril as he started phasing blood behind paint and marble to clean up the scene even as his brother levitated the body up and made it dance a jig before placing his hat back on and propelling the corpse towards the door.

"I guess you can't be," he licked on the cone and Tyki didn't complain. He wouldn't eat much of it. He never had a sweet tooth like Road and himself.

"Water or docks?" He asked, wondering what lie his brother had planned for the dead Baron.

"Docks, his murder will let us crack down on the docks in doing so annoy the Italians. They'll retaliate against the Westies and there will be a gang war for a few weeks, then I'll bring the Army in to quiet it all down. That should cause plenty of grieving widows for the Earl." He answered and flicked his hand and the Baron "walked" out of the room to a no doubt waiting akuma that would plant the body and take the fall. "Maybe I'll ask the Earl to visit his widow, then I can make him dance even after he rots," he chuckled as he removed his blood stained gloves, throwing them into the fire.

Tyki stopped and looked at his brother. This wasn't the Noah gene or rage against Innocents making him do this. He hadn't killed because of the Earl's order or to further his goals. This was Cyril and he had done it because this stupid bastard had made him mad. Tyki loved his brother but he had to agree with Wisely on this, that of all of the Noah, Cyril was the most frightening not because of being a Noah but because of what he was like when he wasn't. Cyril was probably the smartest of them and certainly the most cunning. He was also ruthless boarding on sociopathic and didn't care who or what he trampled over to reach his goals. Tyki had seen it his whole life, the merciless way Cyril met challenges and overcame them sometimes through force, sometimes through wit, but he always ended up on top. His shipping empire, that all the Noah lived off of, was founded on a slew of dead bodies, drugs, guns, piracy, and other assorted smuggling. The worst part was that the groundwork for it had been set before he even became a Noah.

Without realizing it he said, "sometimes you scare me, brother." Cyril stopped and looked at him and he felt guilty. Cyril had never hurt him or done him any harm. In fact, Cyril had basically raised him, especially after their mother was killed. Cyril was his big brother and had taken care of him when he was sick and taught him to read and write. Cyril did these things so that Tyki and the rest of their family wouldn't have to scratch by the way they had had to. He tried to smile to lessen the insult.

"It's alright, Laddy boy, sometimes I scare myself." They both turned to leave and he handed Tyki back his cone. It didn't matter, he wasn't hungry anymore. "Good night, Tyki."

"Night, Cyril," he answered and climbed the stairs to his room, stopping briefly to give Snow one more pat on the head as the dog sat sentinel at the top of the stairs.

Even though he was tired, and his bed was the most comfortable he had ever slept in, his mind couldn't find peace. It was late and he was alone, so he rolled over and retrieved a pouch from his night stand, dumping the contents into his hand. A few pretty rocks along with Allen Walker's button, he sifted back into the bag and grasped a large agate marble. It was perfectly round and smooth, with only the slightest nick in one curve. It was green and blue with a few strings of white and grey running through it. He closed his fist around it, feeling it warm to his touch and rested his hand on his chest as he sank back down. His father, or at least the man who claimed the position, had given to him when he was young. "Look Taicligh, it has all the colors of Ireland in it: the green of the grass, the grey of stone, the blue of the sea, and white of the surf. Keep this with you and you'll always have a piece of home." He had smiled then, his blue eyes shining and Tyki had hugged him. Thomas McMahon had been a simple sailor that had fallen in love with their mother and married her, doing his best to raise her to an honest profession, though Tyki hadn't figured it out till later that she still turned tricks on the side when he was out at sea. But he had convinced her to take runs on pleasure yachts as a server or a maid.

Dad, or Thomas as Cyril called him, had been a good man, an honest man that smiled and loved his family, even Cyril who wasn't his. Tyki always felt safe in his arms, even when they walked near the water. He had loved music and from the time he was 4, had taught Tyki to play the fiddle. He had had a mole under his left eye, just the same as his son and Tyki missed him. The marble, the mole and the fiddle were the only things he had left of the man. Though there was a part of him that was glad he was dead, that both his parents were because what would they say about him and Cyril now. Yes they were wealthy and powerful but they were rotten, a beautiful red apple with the center eaten through by maggots.

He rolled onto his side, still clutching his marble and wondered when everything had all gone wrong. Everything used to be so simple, so easy. Back in Ireland when all he wanted or needed was on the first floor of the little row house they rented on the docks and he was content to run around all day and come home to his mother's cooking, his father's strong arms, and the warmish bed he shared with Cyril. He hadn't even realized that they were poor or that being poor was bad. But Cyril was never content, not even back then. He wouldn't be happy to live on the docks and learn a trade, no he was always at the church or in town, begging for books to read. There was a long time, when Cyril was the only one in their family that could read or figure sums. Back then he never understood how Cyril could spend hours reading, when it was so much more fun to run and play soldier or sailor with the other children. He hadn't understood that Cyril wanted the knowledge in those books, absorbed it like a sponge, and greedily tucked it away until he needed it. He always watched, always learned, always looked for a way to twist things to his own advantage.

He remembered the few times he had gone to town with his brother, to play by the fountain while his brother cleaned the book shop for pennies and the chance to read, he would look around and not understand the fuss. There were pretty people to be sure, women with big hats and skirts, whose faces were pale and had all their teeth and men with smooth hands and clothes that weren't patched that smelled good. He thought they were neat but didn't understand why they were so special. He couldn't fathom why Cyril looked at them with such want in his eyes, such desire. Tyki had never understood, even so long ago, why Cyril couldn't be happy with what was around him, what he already had. He had always been obsessed with stock piling, planning, conniving for the future. He supposed it was the difference between Pleasure and Desire. If Pleasure didn't like something, it simply moved through it, rejected it. If Desire didn't, it controlled it, dominated it, made it bend to its whims.

Pleasure and Desire, that's what they were now, maybe what they had always been. No one had been able to answer his question, if they were the way they were because they were destined to be Noah or if they became Noah because of the way they were. Were they predestined or chosen? He supposed such deep pondering didn't suite his simple mind but he couldn't help himself on this one topic. After all becoming members of the Noah Clan had changed the course of his and Cyril's lives for good, so why shouldn't he ponder the reasons. Maybe he was just liked obsessing about it because it had been so unpleasant for him. He hadn't been lucky like Wisely and turned quickly. He hadn't just  _woken_ in an instant and all was well. He had been more like Skin only worse. For him it had taken months, months of pain that made him writhe and cry, months and fear that left him trembling, months of feeling his mind break fissure by fissure and his sanity slowly slip away like water rolling on a deck.

**10 years ago Dock Yards of Oporto, Portugal**

Taicligh McMahon or Tyki the Mikk as he was now mostly known, sipped his tea and watched the rain sheet down the window and shivered from the draft. He couldn't see much of the docks in this weather but at least he wasn't out in it or worse, Cyril wasn't out on the water in it. He gulped down the rest of his tepid drink and pumped the water spigot to rinse it. Tea got cold so quickly in metal cups, which was why he always let Cyril have the one ceramic mug. He needed it more so he could stay up late and study. He was sitting for his law school entrance exams the day after tomorrow and as usual had commandeered their one table to use as a study station. Tyki didn't mind really, he was tired and achy and would go to bed soon anyway, if the sound of the drip from their leaky roof hitting the wash basin didn't keep him awake. Rain like this always made him feel groggy and unhappy. It had been during a thunderstorm that their parents' ship had gone down.

He looked up one more time at the window and because of the light from Cyril's lantern; he could see himself reflected back against the rain water and dingy window pane. He wondered if he looked as awful as he felt. But within a blink of an eye, his reflection had changed from himself, to a refined version of himself, with skin darker than his darkest tan he had ever had, eyes that shone like candles, and a smile that seemed to take up most of his face. He gasped and grabbed hold of the edge of the sink, agony spiking through his forehead again, like he had been stabbed. Pain lanced through his chest and his limbs felt numb and useless as he watched his reflected self pull his bangs back and expose a row of black crosses, right where his own head throbbed. He felt, rather than saw a drop of blood fall from his forehead and tried to make his ice cold lips form Cyril's name. Didn't his brother see this, wasn't it real?

His reflected self's eyes seem to lose their glow receding to and preternatural golden. They regarded him for a moment then he lifted his hand, a black mark also marring his palm, before pointing out towards the dock. There was a flash of lightening and Tyki saw the docks clearly illuminated, there were dead bodies everywhere, people he had known and been friends with since he and Cyril had moved here 4 years ago. They were covered in blood and ravens pecked at their eyes even as rats nibbled at their bloated and rotting flesh and maggots made their skin ripple. He could smell it, the stink of blood and death. Why couldn't Cyril smell it?

"You could do it, Tyki, you could paint this picture," he heard a whispering voice in his head even as his reflected self mouthed the words. And like that the spell was broken and he could move. Without thinking he bolted for the door, expecting to see the docks bright as the day and covered in blood but instead it was dark and rainy, no different than it had been when he got home.

He heard Cyril shouting after him but ignored it. He opened his mouth to cry out but instead of a scream, his supper spilled out and before he knew it, he was on his hands and knees, retching into the street. He felt his brother's long fingers collect his loose hair and hold it back from his face as he heaved and spat his meal onto the ground. His stomach writhed like there was something alive in it and his nose burned with the scent of blood. He heard a gentle laugh in his head and he whimpered, body convulsing and splattering bile in front of him.

He felt his brother wrap his arm around his chest to hold him up and soothe in his lilting voice, "it's ok Laddy, I've got you." He gagged a few more times, till they were nothing but dry heaves that tore at his throat before Cyril helped him sit up and he immediately pulled his legs to his chest, hiding his face on his knees. He felt Cyril drape his heavy Greatcoat over his shoulders. It was warm with body heat and smelled of the linseed oil and tar used to keep it waterproof when Cyril was out on the fishing ships. With his brother's sure footedness, fearlessness, height, and reach, he was worth his weight in gold as a Rigger and he worked on weekends on fishing ships and occasionally gun or drug runs to pay for his schooling. It wasn't till he no longer felt the rain that he realized he had been in it and that he was cold.

He started to shiver, teeth chattering, just as Cyril returned, wearing only his shirt sleeves. He handed Tyki a dipper of rain water to rinse the vile stickiness out of his mouth and throat. Once he was done, Cyril helped him stand on legs that ached and felt like jelly. His brother man handled him into the house and deposited him in one of the only two chairs they had. Once he had shaken the water off his coat, he returned with a towel and threw it over Tyki's head. All the while he tried not to move too much. He was afraid any movement would set off the blazing pain in his head or the writhing beast in his stomach. But he couldn't stop shaking no matter how he tried.

"Oh Laddy boy, I worry about you," Cyril said, as he rubbed the towel over Tyki's hair, like he had done when his brother had been a little boy. "Not even bright enough to come in out of the rain," he joked and Tyki wanted to laugh but he couldn't. He just kept staring at his hands. They hurt. He felt his brother swipe the towel across his forehead, it felt like sandpaper on an open wound, and then use his finger under Tyki's chin to get him to raise his head. "Did you hit your head, you're bleeding?"

He lifted his own shaking fingers to his forehead and felt the tender stop, and sure enough there was blood. He looked at it and all of a sudden, a large wound opened on his palm, blood, dark and thick like tar poured from it, coating his fingers. He saw bugs, small beetles and maggots teeming in the hole, borrowing under his skin. He blinked again and it was gone but he couldn't stop himself from gagging at the sight. Luckily Cyril had lunged for the pan they were using to collect water from the leaky roof. There was nothing left in him though, so it was all for naught.

Cyril squatted in front of him, bringing him lower than Tyki, so he could look up into his face. "What's the matter?" He asked, taking one of Tyki's hands in his own, rubbing some warmth back into it. He shouldn't be this cold. That was one of the reasons they came to Portugal to get away from the cold in Ireland. That was what Cyril had said, that they needed to go someplace warmer without a looming famine so they went to France, then Spain, then settled here in Portugal so Cyril could go to school. It was ok though, unlike the other places he spoke the language here. His brother again tried to catch his eyes, "this is the 3rd time in as many weeks that you've been sick. We need to take you to a doctor tomorrow." He felt his brother's hand on his leg, warm and comforting. He wasn't sure a doctor could help him. He was pretty sure he needed a priest.

"No," he managed to croak. His throat felt like had been gargling glass. "You need to study tomorrow then you have your tests. If I still feel bad, we'll go after that." He wouldn't screw up Cyril's plans for this. He wasn't a kid anymore.

"Are you sure, Laddy," his brother asked him, concern warring with his desire to not waste precious study time. Tyki was sure and shook his head  _yes_ , not trusted his voice. "Ok, then off to bed with you," Cyril pulled him up and gave him a little shove towards the back of their house. He had recently started sleeping on a straw tick mattress on the floor like Cyril, now too tall to sleep on the cot. He sat on his bed and pulled his boots off, burrowing under the blanket. It did nothing to stop his shivering. He opened his eyes as he heard Cyril come kneel beside him. They didn't have a bedroom, proper, really their rented house was only one room with a small kitchen and a nook they slept in. They shared outhouses and bathing rooms with the rest of the row houses. He watched his brother place a pail beside him and pull the blanket from his own bed over top of him. "No reason to have you running out in the rain again," Cyril stroked his hair and he wanted to cry for some reason. "Now get some rest, I'll be at the table if you need anything." Tyki nodded then closed his eyes.

 


	2. I'll Wager a Fiddle of Gold Against Your Soul

**Lisbon Portugal, Present Day**

Tyki stretched his feet closer to the fire, wondering when it would start to burn. Ever since that horrible Walker kid had tried to exorcise his Noah and he had lost controlled and turned into a drooling idiot in Flamenco pants, he had had a hard time warming up. Just thinking about it made his scars and his pride ache. As much as he sometimes lost patience with the world Cyril lived in and the person he had to be when he was here, having a comfy chair, a sturdy house (without a leaky roof), and a warm fire was a nice perk. A storm had rolled in during the afternoon and it raged outside like a beast. Thunderstorms always made him sleepy and unhappy. He had once asked if it was some weird Noah thing but it turned out it was just a weird Tyki thing.

He tried to tune out the other occupants of the room but it was hard. Cyril and Tricia weren't too bad. They were curled together on the lounge, discussing something about the nursery. He still got a kick out of the fact Cyril and her were going to have a kid of their own, plus a good bit of jealousy but he wouldn't tell anyone that. He supposed he shouldn't be since they all knew the child she carried would eventually become Raasura, which was probably the only reason Cyril had stopped poisoning her and allowed her to get pregnant. He wondered if the kid would be blond. The Earl had once told him that based on his "knowledge of genetics" he guessed that Cyril's father was probably actually Finnish based on his height, straight hair, flat cheek bones, and heavily lidded hazel eyes. Tyki couldn't care less frankly, they were brothers regardless of having different fathers.

Jasdero and Devitt were being themselves, meaning they were loud, annoying, and dumb as boiled shit. Wisely was taunting them but hiding behind the Earl. The Earl himself was there, which was odd, and was trying to conduct Road as she mangled a piece on the piano. Frankly he was surprised his ears weren't bleeding.

The Earl clapped, "that was very good, Road, a bit more practice and you'll be ready for your school recital." She beamed up at the fat man and Tyki rolled his eyes. At least she had quit asking his help on her homework. As if answering her geography homework with the number 12 wasn't bad enough, another time he had written an essay for her in Irish Gaelic that mostly compared Jesus's Christ's parentage to that of Minerva and a donkey. But the final straw had been when he helped her with her art history and rather than explaining the difference between Italian Renaissance and Gothic Art, he had masterfully illustrated the difference in a set of six pornographic scenes, two of them had Allen Walker being sodomized by a donkey. She had finally taken the hint after that and Cyril had nearly kicked both their asses because he had gotten called down to the school to discuss his daughter's 'inappropriate obsession with donkeys.'

"What did you think Tyki?" she turned to look at him.

"Does it really matter what I think?" He questioned, hoping he didn't have to answer. In this guise, as Lord Mikk, his profession was as a musician; a violinist to be exact. It was ideal for getting him into people's homes and lives. He did play piano splendidly though, after all it was  _madre benedetta_  of all classical music.

"Of course it does, now tell me how did I do?" she bounced in her seat looking like a real 13 year old.

"Terrible," he sipped his drink and left it at that.

"Tyki-pet, that isn't nice," the Earl scolded him.

"Please stop calling me 'Tyki-pet,' Fatman. It makes me feel dirty."

"Stop calling me fat and hurting Road's feelings."

"Then tell her to get better. She was playing most of it in 3/4 time rather than 3/8. She missed the transition into D Minor. Her arpeggios were muddled and sloppy, and her pedal work needs serious help," he explained, slouching lower in his chair to avoid anything she might throw at him. He could practically hear Road fuming.

"Then you play it better," she groused at him and he decided he might as well. She scooted over on the bench to make room for him and the Earl sat down to watch. He started the Bagatelle flawlessly, without even looking at the music. He loved this piece and knew it by heart, Fur Elise, as it was commonly called.

He finished to the applause of Tricia, Cyril, the Earl, and Wisely. "That was simply wonderful, Tyki," Tricia complimented him. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of the praise. Ah, how would people take it if they knew he used to play his fiddle on street corners for change or in pubs in exchange for food? He never played for Momo, Clack, or Eaze, though sometimes he would sing. They thought him mildly talented and had no idea he had played the  _Devil's Trill_  at the Viennese opera house, where once Beethoven had graced the stage. He now so strongly associated music with this world, he didn't want it mixing with his human friends, if they were even still his friends. He hadn't seen them in months.

He decided since he was here, he might as well have some fun and started playing a much faster pace piece and started to sing, " _Gentleman it is me duty, to inform of one beauty_ ," and continued on to sing  _The Queen of Argyle_ as Cyril and Tricia danced. It made his heart swell to see them move together and seem happy at the same time made it immeasurably sad that he didn't have that and probably never would. But he supposed his basic assumption might be wrong. He was in no doubt that Tricia loved Cyril but was in serious doubt of the other way. Cyril treated her well, very well, and even after nearly five years of marriage, they still had weekly dates where no one, not even the Earl was allowed to bother them. But he still remembered the clinical way his brother had gone about finding a wife. He had created lists of all the eligible women in Europe and Eastern Europe and ranked them based on connections, peerage, education, and age. Once he had it to a manageable list, they started meeting them and he had selected Tricia, the second daughter of an Archduke of Hapsburgs Austria, because she was tall. His choice of wife came down to the practical mechanics of her being 5'9" and the other front runners being around 5'3" and therefore he didn't have to bend down as far to kiss her. Tyki always liked to hope that if he ever married it would be for a better reason but he also suspected that his brother had his eye on a particular Spanish Princess that had recently come of age and liked the violin.

Jasdevi clapped for him as he finished and asked for another. He agreed, mostly to keep them quiet but switched to the softer, more melancholy ballad of  _Father Murphy._ He closed his eyes as he sang, " _Come all you warriors and renowned nobles/Give ear unto my warlike theme/While I relate how brave Father Murphy/He lately roused from his sleepy dream."_

When he was finished the Earl said, "Tyki-pet, you truly are beautiful, when you sing." He couldn't help the soft smile that came to his face.

"Why don't you help me, Tyki?" Road asked him, from her spot beside him on the bench. He thought about telling her he didn't know how to read music but figured no one would believe that. It wasn't that he didn't love her, he did, it was just that she was such a brat sometimes. And she tended to get violent when she didn't get her own way. Not to mention that regardless of the fact she could steer the Arc, the girl had no rhythm, none at all. It was actually sort of amazing.

He pulled her into a one arm hug and kissed the top of her head, smiling at her, "no, absolutely not." She elbowed him in the chest, hard, catching him right in the scar, making him hiss. How did she manage to always hit that spot?!

"Road!" Tricia nearly shouted and stood. "Don't hit your uncle, now you apologize right now, then we are going to bed."

Road looked like she might protest, after all she was old enough to be her  _mother's_  grandmother but she relented. "I'm sorry Tyki. I hope that little love tap didn't incapacitate you," she smiled at him, sticking her tongue out when her mother wasn't looking. Then she leapt up to give Cyril a kiss and to hug the Earl before following Tricia towards the door.

He rose to retrieve his brandy and reclaim his seat by the fire but Devitt was in it, looking smug. "Can I have my seat back, please?" He asked politely, knowing it wouldn't work.

"No way, it's mine now!" Oh really? That was his chair, Cyril and bought it for him and placed it by the fire for his use, long before their Noahs had even awoken. It was his fucking chair!

"Yeah, it's his now," Jasdero laughed manically. Sometimes their idiocy worried him.

"Ok," he conceded, then touched the back of the big leather chair with one index finger, turning it incorporeal so Devitt fell through it onto the floor. He then walked around and sank into it, turning it solid again. He heard Road laugh from the doorway as Tricia pulled her away.

"Hey!" Devitt shouted while his brother giggled and clapped, rolling on his back. He finally gave up, sitting in chair further from the fire and watched after Tricia, who was still scolding Road for being a hooligan. "You know, Cyril," Devitt started, "Your wife is kind of hot when she gets all authoritative," he mused then noticed the look Cyril and himself were giving him. "I mean, pretty, beautiful in a completely non sexual and utterly respectful way," he stuttered then said, "it's late, we're going to bed." He grabbed his brother by the hair and they both hurried out, Wisely following them for now apparent reason. It left him and Cyril alone with the Earl.

"Tyki, you really should consider teaching Road. She would probably do better under you than her current tutor," the Earl suggested, which meant he wouldn't have a choice and he would be teaching her.

"If it means that much to, My Lord, I'll do it." He didn't have anything else to do, not since that detestable Allen Walker destroyed his ability to go back to Eaze and his other friends. He rubbed his chest, where it hurt.

"Thank, you Tyki-pet," the clown stretched his short legs out to the fire, the same way Tyki did. He turned his head and let his hair fall into his face, not caring if it made him look scruffy. He closed his eyes and listened to the fire and the Cyril discussing the assassination of some rival shipping magnate from Venice that had been encroaching on the inroads he had made in East Asia. It sort of disturbed him that one minute he could be cuddling with his wife and the next planning murder. Before he knew it, the warmth of the fire and the brandy made him doze off, rain just did that to him for some reason. He woke to the blanket that usually sat on the lounge, covering him and the Earl stroking his hair from his face. "You should go to bed," he told him and Tyki couldn't argue. "It's strange to think that two dockyard ruffians turned into my two finest Noah." He smiled and bowed, not sure if that was a compliment he actually wanted.

_Dockyard ruffians_ indeed? That was a polite thing to call them compared to what they had been and how low they had sunk before the Earl found them.

**10 years ago Dock Yards of Oporto, Portugal**

Tyki was nervous, more nervous than he had been since the last time Cyril had made him get on a boat to sail from Southend to Calais. He was probably more nervous than Cyril. His brother had left early that morning to go sit for entrance into Law School. He hoped it went well but supposed he should be sure it would. No one was smarter than his big brother. He hummed to himself as he cleaned up their small house. He wanted it to be nice and neat for Cyril when he got home. He knew it annoyed his brother that they lived in such a crummy place so Tyki tried to keep it as clean as he could, even though being messy didn't bother him that much.

It was sunny and pretty today, and he planned to take a walk to park after he was finished and maybe see if the baker had any day old bread. Cyril would get mad if he spent money on fresh bread but the day old stuff was still better than the soda bread Cyril cooked and only half the price. He was nearly finished mopping the floor when he heard someone call his name, "Tyki," he looked up but didn't see anyone. "Tyki, why are mopping the floor with blood?" The Voice asked, and he recognized it from a few nights ago. It had been talking to him for weeks.

He looked around, and saw that every place he had cleaned, the chairs, the table, the floor, all of it was covered with blood. He gasped and took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes, hoping it would change but it didn't. He looked down into the pail he was using to clean with and noticed it was filled with blood, thick and red. He gasped, startling backwards and tipping it over. From the bottom of it squirmed a large larva, nearly as long as his arm. It inched towards him, mewling like new born cat. He backed up, tripping over the chair, but continued to crawl backwards away from it.

"This isn't real," he whispered, trying to convince himself that his eyes were deceiving him even as he could smell the blood.

"Of course it is real, my precious, the blood came from you. The Teaze just wants some to make it grow strong and breed," it chuckled and he looked down at his hands and saw they were bleeding. He had a weeping, cross shaped mark on each palm that burned and ached, like his head had two days ago.

"No, it can't be real, it can't be. I'm dreaming," he reached for the table and tried to pull himself up, just to have his hand go through it like it or maybe he was ghost. Was he dead, was this hell?

"Oh but look, Tyki, all the things you thought were real are only an illusion you can't even touch. But you are very much awake and this is real." He felt a blinding pain in his middle and looked down to see a grey arm sticking out of him. It beckoned the hideous, giant maggot thing closer to him. He could see its face was a skull with gnashing teeth. The hand absorbed the creature into its palm then pulled it back inside of Tyki. He swore he could feel it worming around inside of him and he gagged. "It's ok, Tyki, don't make yourself unwell over this. Just relax and let me wake up and this will all be over," the voice coaxed, honey sweet.

Tyki bolted for the door, slipping on the blood coating the floor and falling to his hands and knees, exposing the wood under the gore. He emerged into the bright sunlight, to the sound of the Voice laughing, as he sprinted towards the town square. He knew the way by heart, which was good because he didn't think he could remember his name right now. He cut through an alley and emerged in front of the church, breathing a sigh of relief at being in the shadow of God. He shot up the stairs and entered the vestibule, panting as he dropped to genuflect.

He looked up at the Crucifix above the altar and hoped the Voice would go away. It quieted, within the church but he felt no better. Usually coming here made him feel calmer. He loved Cathedrals, the sound of them, the smell of them. They were always safe places when they had been traveling across Europe. He knew Cyril had no faith but he did. He never told him brother but every day he went to sea, Tyki came to the church and lit a candle for him and prayed to Saint Brendan he would come home safe.

It was still early and a Monday so the pews were mostly empty, only a few old women, with black lace shawls sat about. Tyki would never admit to brother, at least not yet, but he was seriously considering joining the Priesthood. He knew he wasn't cut out to be a scholar, like his Cyril. He wasn't smart enough or focused enough. He loved music but you couldn't really make a living as a musician without a patron and he didn't have one. He knew he needed to stop letting Cyril take care of him soon, his brother needed to be able to live for himself, instead of always worrying about his bone-headed, younger brother. And maybe the church was a good place for him to go.

Normally he would sit quietly and think or talk to one of the priests about trivial things, usually Father Ignacio, but today he felt he needed to confess. He waited till the confessional was open and darted in, his knees felt wobbly and his hands shook so much he almost couldn't close the door. He dropped down onto the prie-dieu, his knees making a quiet thud. He waited for the screen to slide open and crossed himself, "Bless me father for I have sinned it has 4 months since my last confession," he started.

"What sin do you have to confess, my son," the priest asked. From the voice he could tell it was Father Rodriquez. He was the eldest priest here and delivered the Sunday mass most weeks.

"I fear I have lost God's love," he spit out, trying to stop his teeth from chattering. It was so cold.

"Why would you think that, what sin have you committed that would make God turn away from you?" Tyki rested his forehead against the wooden divider, not caring if the scroll work left imprints on his face. He curled the fingers of his left hand between two crosses and noticed blood dripping onto his leg. He didn't know if it was real or not.

He wondered where he should start. He had been hearing the Voice for a few weeks now but hadn't started seeing things until two nights ago. But that wasn't really a sin. He wondered if he should talk about Rosa, the pub owner's daughter. Three weeks ago she had asked him to go with her to pick up fresh herbs from the market and he had agreed. She led them to a secluded spot and kissed him. He had never kissed a girl before. But it hadn't stopped there, she nibbled his lip and ran her fingers through his hair till his trousers were embarrassingly tight. Then she had untied her blouse and loosened her corset so he could run his hands along her breasts. Her skin was so soft and she smelled like cinnamon and cloves. She was nearly a year older than him and he couldn't believe she was doing this. He always thought she had a crush on Cyril. Her dark eyes had sparkled as she rested her small hand on his crotch and guided his under her skirt. He felt the downy curls of her pubic hair and released in his pants. She had giggled at him and he was immediately embarrassed, mortified really. The few times he had heard his brother having sex it took longer and the girl laughed during, not after.

"I had inappropriate relations with my boss's daughter," he stuttered through his explanation of what had happened.

"Are you penitent, my son?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "It was fun but I know it was wrong but that isn't the problem," he watched blood well from his left hand and roll down his forearm to drip onto his hip and thigh.

"Then what is the problem," the Father patiently asked and Tyki took a deep breath.

"I," he swallowed and wondered if he should continue. He was going to sound like a crazy person but priests weren't allowed to repeat what they heard. "I've been hearing things."

"What types of things?"

"A voice," he closed his eyes before the tears that were welling up in them could fall. He wasn't a kid, he shouldn't be crying. "A voice that keeps talking to me and telling me to let it wake up. At first it was just like whispers on the wind but now it's clear and I'm the only one that can hear it," he explained.

"What does it talk to you about, my child?"

"It plays tricks on me. It tells me I can do things that I wouldn't ever do, then two nights ago, I saw," he bit his lip to stifle the cry that wanted to work its way from his throat.

"It's alright, my son, you are safe in God's arms here," the Priest reassured him.

"Two nights ago, I saw my reflection in the window and it was me but wasn't me. I had dark skin and yellow eyes like an animal and cross shaped scars across my forehead. The voice told me to look outside and everyone was dead. They were all dead and I could smell the blood," he raised his right hand to his mouth and noticed it looked like it was bleeding too. He ignored it and started chewing on his thumb nail. "But when I looked again there was nothing there. Then today, I was cleaning and the Voice told me I was mopping with blood. It looked like water, then there was blood everywhere and there was this thing and it crawled inside of me and my hand went through the table," he tried to make it sound coherent but it didn't. "I just, I want it to stop. God can make it stop, can't he? I don't know what I did to make him angry but I'm sorry."

"Be at piece, child, God is with you,  _Cum Sacerdos pænitentem absolvere velit, injuncta ei prius, et ab eo acceptata, salutari pænitentia, primo dicit: Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis tuis, perducat te ad vitam æternam. Amen. Deinde, dextera versus pænitentem elevata, dicit: Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum tuorum tribuat tibi omnipotens et misericors Dominus. Amen. D ominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat: et ego auctoritate ipsìus te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis, (suspensionis), et interdicti, in quantum possum, et tu indiges. Deinde ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen._ "

"You honestly think this puny man and his pretty magic words can save you from me?" The Voice laughed into his head and he was about to genuflect. "He doles out absolution while he under priest, Father Ignacio, thinks of putting his hand down your pants and kissing your pretty face," it taunted and Tyki couldn't help but whimper. "Foolish children of God that think abstinence saves their souls even as fucking saves their species. Tell me Tyki, what's more fun getting felt up by Rosa or by one of the Padres?"

"No, be quiet," he mumbled and bit down on his thumb.

"Do you want to know what he'll look like when he burns in hell for his sins? His flesh roasting till it slips off the bone like mutton in your mother's stew," the Voice asked him as it showed him a picture of Father Rodriquez through the panel, only this time his grey hair was burned from his head and his skin was melting from his face like a boiled calf head. He could smell the scorching flesh and he scurried from booth, wanting to get away from the smell. Every person he passed was burned and grotesque, some of them twisted as if they were on a rack.

He made it out of the door and over the railing of the steps before he vomited but barely, his glasses nearly falling from his face into the mess. He kept his eyes closed not wanting to see anyone else half cooked. He choked and gagged, long past the point of their being anything in his stomach but still he felt like there was something caught in his throat. He reached into his mouth, hoping to dislodge it and was met by hair. He pulled and freed a hank of dark hair with a purple butterfly wing wrapped in it. He stared at it wanting to scream.

"The Teaze wanted to say hello," the Voice explained. He sank down on the steps, knowing his legs wouldn't hold him and curled in on himself.

That was how he was when Father Ignacio approached him. "Tyki, are you alright? Would you like to come back inside?" the man tried to coax him but he shook his head and kept his eyes firmly closed, he couldn't face seeing those burned parishioners again. "It's cold out here, you'll be warmer inside and we can talk," the priest tried again.

"I," he tried to talk and had to clear his throat. "I don't feel so good, right no. Can I just sit here for a little while?" He felt like were things writhing inside of him and it hurt.

"Of course, would you like me to get you some water?" the man asked him and he shook his head non committally. He had yet to open his eyes. Even though the sun shone, the stone was cold and so was Tyki. Ignacio came back, proffering a tin cup to him, which he accepted. When he finally opened his eyes and looked into the cup, he saw a snake, golden and fierce, with its jaws wide and fangs bared. In its mouth was a mewling maggot. He threw it away before noticing it was nothing more than a mug of water. "Tyki," the man exclaimed and he looked up at the blessedly whole face of the Father.

"Sorry, I thought," he stopped not sure what he had thought.

Before he had to explain any further, Father Ignacio took right hand, gingerly, turning his palm up. "What did you do to your hand?" He hadn't even noticed it was still weeping blood from the cross shaped mark. He looked at left and it was the same. He hadn't done anything to them, they just kept doing this but he thought it was an illusion, like the dead bodies but what if it wasn't? What if neither of them was?

"You can see them?" he asked in a small voice.

"Yes, I can, Tyki, how did you do this?" His voice was quiet and his hands gentle.

"I don't know, it just showed up," he answered as he started biting the nail on his index finger.

"We should go inside and talk to Father Rodriquez," Ignacio tried to coax him and he almost went, until he looked back and saw one of the women leaving the church, and her face was horrible and twisted as if she was in great pain.

"No, I can't," he shook his head. "I can't go back in there, I have to go," he stood and his legs nearly buckled but he caught himself on the wall.

"Tyki, you aren't well, you should come inside, if you want, you can go into the back and lie down, I can go get your brother. Is he home?"

Cyril, he wasn't home, he would be almost done with his test by now. He was going to go to the baker and there was blood all over the house. "No, he's not home. I have to go," he took a shaky step then another, feeling better the further he got from the church.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Cyril yawned and watched the pilot steer the ship close to dock. It had been a long day of meeting some contacts from Kerry, repacking guns, and then catching enough fish to cover them. The harbor manifests had this ship listed as fishing only, no transport, so it was only inspected for fish. As long as they had enough cod, eel, and other assorted sea creatures, no one looked further. Then it was just a matter of unloading the gun crates and hiding them in the warehouse. The owner of the ship, Madame Cortez, was an old widow that cared for nothing but her grandchildren and the money his 3 ship fleet provided. Cyril kept the books and her warehouse for her and in return she taught Tyki the violin and piano. And if he occasionally used her warehouses to clean less than legally acquired goods, no one was the wiser. They were logged as one thing coming in and another going out and as long as they were of equal value, people never looked deeper and it was all neatly kept in the ledgers by him. Buried in mounds of paperwork, scribbling, and codes only he understood, all the illegality of it was hidden in plain sight only most people were too lazy to ever look for it. The two that had tried to look closer were now sleeping with Davy Jones and no longer his problem.

There were 2 newer men this go around that bothered him though. Both had been vouched for, which wasn't a problem but their attitudes were horrible. They were Brits and both hounded him all day about being a Mick and asked how he covered his red hair. He had been ignoring them all day until right before they docked. "Hey, Blarney Stone," God he hated the English. "I bet you could make even more money on the docks sending that pretty brother of yours ship side. He could probably flutter his eyelashes and make you a fortune. If you ever smiled I bet you could too," the man blew a kiss at him. He was beyond disturbed that either of them noticed the fact Tyki had really long eyelashes just like him and their mother.

He looked up at the sails, the sun was starting to set, it would be full dark soon, and counted to 10 then decided that was a good enough reason to beat the shit out of this guy. He would never let Tyki do that, EVER! He had not been above making some money on his knees a few times when they had been very desperate but that was him not his brother. Tyki would have it better than he had.

"Hah, funny," he agreed, walking over to the joking man and punching him squarely in the nose. He felt bone break and blood explode over his fist, giving him a feeling of satisfaction. But he didn't stop there; he needed to make a statement not to mess with him, even though he was young. He then grabbed the downed man by the hair and dragged him over to the base of the wheel, as he howled and shouted. He proceeded to stomp his heel against the man's jaw, where it rested on the brass fittings. Once he saw teeth on the deck and that man's face was misshapen, he finally stopped.

He flipped the Brit over, and got right in his face, "you or your murdering, bastard, Limey friend ever talk about my brother again and I'll fucking murder you." He curled his fingers into his sleeve and freed the Châtellerault switchblade he carried in his cuff. He trailed the knife along the fool's eyebrow before slicing his eyelid off with a quick cut. "Do we understand each other?" he asked and the man shakily nodded his head and Cyril dropped him into a quivering heap on the deck. He was glad to see the majority of the crew found other things to do while the fight was going on.

He returned to watching the dock and noticed his brother was sitting on a crate waiting for him. He waved and Tyki waved back. He was worried as hell about his baby brother. He had been sick off and on for weeks and had been acting jumpy and or weirdly distracted lately. He seemed to be smiling though, as he pushed his glasses up his nose. There was tape holding the bridge together. He was going to have to get the kid a new pair soon.

He hopped off the boat, as soon as they were close enough and Tyki jogged up to him, handing him a sandwich. "I'm glad you're back safe," Tyki smiled at him.

"It was a short fishing run, no big deal," he answered and took a bite out of his meal. It was salt cod; words failed him how tired he was of salt cod.

"So, Mr. Rocha came by earlier and asked if we could work tonight. Apparently Maria and Claudio are sick. I told him I could go but wasn't sure about you."

"Bloody hell," he cursed. Mr. Rocha was the owner of the most lucrative pub and eatery on the docks. Cyril had been working for him waiting tables and keeping his books for the last four years. It was a steady, if menial, job that made sure they had food to eat and a roof over their heads. He knew Cyril was in school and worked another job and wouldn't ask unless he really needed him. But on the flip side he had been up since before 4am and on the sea all day. He was tired as hell.

"I can take your shift for you, if you want. They need a waiter more than a dishwasher," Tyki suggested but he wouldn't send his kid brother there by himself. It was after all a dockyard pub with drunks and even Cyril got his ass grabbed at least 2 times a night. He was not about to let his ridiculously pretty brother go there alone.

"No, we'll both go," he stuffed the rest of his food in his mouth, noting he only had about 30 minutes before they would be expected. He threw his arm around Tyki pulling him into a headlock as they walked along the busy docks. As usual Tyki stayed on the inside, as far away from the water as he could get. "You know, one of these day we aren't going to have to worry about working from before dawn till after dark," he started one of their favorite games, imagining what it would be like if they had money. "And when I come home from work, I won't smell like fucking fish."

Tyki giggled at that. It was nice to hear the kid laugh. "And we'll have fresh bread, not that awful, hard a rock stuff you make," he supplied.

"Aye, and a house without a leaky room or oven that smokes," Cyril added.

"And blankets that don't have fleas." Tyki suggested.

"Yeah, and we'll get to eat beef rather than salty, fucking fish," he teased and let his brother go. "Now let's go find a trough to throw me in so I don't stink of dead fish all night."

()()()()()()()()()()()

It was nearly midnight and Cyril had to bite his cheek not to yawn. The pub was as busy as ever and per usual he spent as much time making sure Rosa wasn't felt up as he did serving food. Goddamnit, he would be glad once he graduated from Law School and got a nice quiet desk job instead of a loud, rowdy, smelly pub. He poured two more mugs of wine, corking the bottle that was starting to have a vinegary smell to it and took a deep breath before coming out from behind the bar. There were as many whores as there were sailors and their hands tended to stray as much as the sailors.

He deposited the mugs in front of a scarred fisherman and his  _date_ for the night and waited to see if they would order food. He suspected they wouldn't tip for shit. His only consolation was that she had that almond smell he associated with treatment for syphilis. Once they waved him away he was flagged down by a few more people, inquiring if Tyki was coming to come out and play the fiddle. He didn't' think so, his brother seemed as tired as he was. He started collecting dirty crockery and wiping down a free table when there was a shout from the back and someone called his name.

Leaving the dishes where they were, he darted to the back, where the dishwashers worked and found his brother on the floor in the corner, his hand was bright red, and there was an overturned pot of what appeared to be boiling water. "Davi, what's going on?" he barked at the young boy that worked with Tyki. His brother pulled his knees to his chest and hid his face.

"I don't know, sir, we were working then all of a sudden he started mumbling to himself then he stuck his hand in that pot of boiling water. I made him pull it back out but he jumped away from me like I hurt him," the kid explained. He quickly grabbed a clean towel and pumped cool water onto it.

He knelt in front of Tyki, taking the red, blistered hand in his and wrapped it in the wet towel. "Laddy boy, what happened?" he asked and touched Tyki's hair.

"There were bugs," he whispered.

"Bugs?"

"Bugs and spiders coming out of the drain and they got in my cut and now they're under my skin and I can't get rid of them. He said if I boil them, they'll come out. I want them out," he babbled and Cyril knew his mouth was probably hanging open. He didn't see any bugs or spiders anywhere. He looked at Davi, who shook his head  _no._

"Tyki, look at me," he coaxed his brother to lift his head at the same time he noticed that he was shaking like a leaf. His brother steadfastly kept his eyes closed. He brushed the unruly hair off his forehead and rested the back of his palm against it. It felt like touching a brazier. "Laddy boy why didn't you say you were sick, you're burning up?"

Tyki shivered in response, "I'm not hot, I'm cold. Maybe if my blood turns to icicles the bugs will freeze and stop squirming inside of me," he mumbled. By this point, Mrs. Rocha was in there and cooed over the boy.

"I need to leave and take him to hospital," he looked at her, giving her no room to argue.

"Of course, Cyril. Take him and let us know how he is," she assured him and handed him Tyki's glasses from the edge of the sink. The kid always took them off when he was working because they didn't fit right and could fall in the water if he had his face down. He was glad, his boss's wife didn't protest. As much as he hated it, he needed this job.

He managed to get Tyki standing and out of the back door, through the alley and a good way towards the closest hospital before his brother seemed to have noticed he was moving. His only comment was, "they're crawling in my throat, butterfly wings and hair are choking me." Cyril just urged him to go faster. Once they got to the hospital, the staff seemed to recognize that Tyki was in pretty bad shape and ushered them into an exam room right away. Tyki sat huddled on the bed, scratching at his forearm.

"Stop scratching," Cyril scolded him and tried not to remember how many times he had said that when Tyki had had chicken pox as a kid. He leaned against the door, since there was nowhere to sit other than the table. Tyki tried to but kept bouncing his leg and rocking back and forth.

"I can feel them squirming," he said and started scratching again, before wrapping both arms around his stomach. "They're wiggling inside of me like a dead body."

"It's not real," Cyril explained, coming to stand by his brother and petting his hair.

"It's real, he says it's real but everything else isn't. I can't trust what I see anymore." He hunched further over and groaned. "I don't feel so good," he moaned and Cyril sighed as he grabbed a deep bowl full of water and something that smelled like rubbing alcohol off a stand and shoved it in front of his brother. He sat beside him holding his hair and balancing the bowl for him. He really hoped if he got married he didn't have any kids. He had had it with changing nappies, wiping snotty noses, and cleaning up puke just from his brother alone.

The doctor chose that moment to come in and after less than a 5 minute exam concluded that Tyki had the flu and needed rest, beef tea, and a bottle of very expensive medicine that smelled like nothing more than bitters and garlic. He paid their bill, manhandled his brother home, dumping him in bed, an hour before dawn and finally collapsed in bed to get a whopping 45 minutes of sleep before he had to be up for another fishing trip. One day, one day he would have a job where he didn't have to get up at the ass crack of dawn and take shit from other people.

He had hoped that Tyki would feel better by the time he got home that evening but he still seemed dazed and occasionally babbled nonsense. His fever was gone, though he still seemed to shiver now and again. Over the next few weeks, things didn't improve, even after taking him back to the doctor. He didn't seem to be able to hold down anything he ate, sometimes he seemed to writhe in pain for no reason, and he constantly scratched at his skin or chewed on his finger nails. He had actually torn one nail completely out of the socket.

One of the priests, Ignacio he though, had come by to visit Tyki a few times, offering him Communion. He always left when they talked, finding the entire thing a waste of time. When had a dry, tasteless wafer and cheap wine ever made anything better? But whatever, Tyki bended towards the religious like their mother. But frankly he was at his wit's end. Tyki wasn't getting better, if anything he was getting worse and no one seemed to know what was wrong with him. He was afraid his brother was losing his mind because most days all he talked about was a  _Voice_ that was "like sugar and bees behind his eyes." What the fuck did that mean?

Nearly 6 weeks later, he trudged to the door and unlocked it. He had had a run to Amsterdam and been gone 3 days. He knew Tyki hated it when he was on the sea overnight but they needed the money. His brother hadn't been able to work in weeks and all the trips to the doctors' were not cheap. He walked in and saw his brother with a knife, in his hand, carving symbols onto his thighs. His forearms were bleeding profusely, from where it looked like he had sliced them several times. He also had blood running down his forehead.

"Tyki, what he fuck are doing?" he shouted and he looked up.

"I wanted to get the bugs out," he answered, then his eyes rolled back and he fainted. 4 days later, he sat outside of the Catholic Hospital in Oporto, where Tyki had been transferred for "suicide watch." He rubbed his fingers across his eyes and over his forehead. He needed to shave, smelled like dead fish from his trip that morning, and had a pounding headache. The consensus was that Tyki needed to stay in the hospital for a few days to determine if he needed to be committed. The very thought scared him. He had worked so hard, done so much so Tyki could one day have the type of life he deserved only to have it end here with him going stark, raving, fucking crazy.

He allowed himself to indulge in self pity, in the dying light for a few minutes, before a Priest came and sat beside him. "Are you Cyril McMahon?" he asked, his accent clearly Irish as well.

"I'm Cyril but not McMahon," he answered.

"But you are Taicligh's brother?" It surprised him somewhat that the man pronounced Tyki's Christian name correctly. It had been so long since anyone used it, even he just called him Tyki now.

"Aye, and who are you?" Not even bothering to be friendly. Tyki was the one with the charisma. That kid could go anywhere and make 10 friends. Cyril was just happy when he didn't end up in a fight with someone.

"I'm Father Patrick Murphy. I'm a doctor with the Vatican and I specialize in these types of cases." He smiled and offered Cyril a cigarette which he waved off. After spending the last 6 years working in pubs, he couldn't stand the fucking smell of those things.

"And what type of case is that?" he asked.

"Well I haven't figured that out yet," he smiled and Cyril considered taking a ship out to sea and never coming back.

TBC

 


	3. Please allow me to Introduce Myself

_Anachronisms abound, you have been warned._

**Chapter 3: Please allow me to Introduce Myself**

**Bermuda Sloop** _**Noah's Arc** _ **off the cost of Portugal – Present day**

Wisely tilted his head up and watched Road follow Cyril along the rat lines, where he pointed out this knot or that knot. He had never been on a boat before, much less a Bermuda Sloop style weekender yacht with a Genoa jib and gaff rig, whatever the hell that meant. Apparently his adoptive "father" knew quite a bit about ships, which made sense considering he was the owner of the largest maritime shipping company in mainland Europe. Wisely was actually just as interested as Road about how things worked and Cyril for once actually had time to explain to them but he had no desire to clime 20 feet in the air with nothing to hold him up except his own balance and a hand on a rope. He, unlike Cyril, had no powers of levitation. Though according to Tyki, he used to climb around like that on even higher sails before he became a Noah. Apparently Cyril had some nerves of steel. His brother on the other hand, not so much.

Probably the most interesting or probably just amusing part of this whole endeavor was not the fact that the Earl came. It was not the fact that Tricia came, it was the fact that Tyki came. Cyril hadn't even bothered inviting his brother but the Earl had insisted. Tyki had tried everything in his power to get out of it, going so far as to offer to assassinate the pope. The Earl had been unmoved. Wisely had found the reluctance bizarre at first but now he understood. Where Cyril seemed more relaxed than he had ever seen him, dare he say even genuinely happy, Tyki looked like a cat in the middle of an earthquake. He literally had a white knuckle grip on the railing and his legs spread wide apart like he was going to fall. Every time they hit a particularly large wave, he closed his eyes and occasionally whimpered. Twice he had accidently turned incorporeal and either sank knee deep into the ship or floated above it. The entire spectacle was rather unmanly and incredibly comical. Jasdero was going to be so pissed they missed it, since trying to make the "uppity brothers lose their cool" was one of their favorite pastimes.

"Tyki, why don't you come over here and sit down?" Tricia held her hand out to him, from where she lounged beside the Earl. She was dressed more casually than usual, in a rather unflattering high wasted dress that mostly hid the rounding of her belly. He wasn't sure how he felt about the future prospect of living in a house with a mewling kid but they would probably have nannies and wet nurses and shit like that. They were rich people. Tyki looked over his shoulder at her and removed one fist from the railing just as they crested a wave, causing him to slap his hand back even harder. She smiled indulgently at her brother in law and rose to walk over to him. "It' ok, just sit down beside and the Earl and I will distract you." He gave her a look like she asked him to set himself on fire. She pet his hair and touched his cheek.

Tricia had been one of the most anomalous fixtures he had run into in his new life. In theory it didn't surprise him that Cyril had a high born wife. He needed one to portray the perfect, political picture. What had actually surprised him was how people felt about her. She was pretty in a wispy, sickly kind of way. And her Austrian accent was sort of cute to listen to, and he had seen in Cyril's thoughts that even though she was thin, she had a pretty amazing body and was apparently a bit of a tiger in bed. But that didn't explain the fact that as an outsider she knew about the Noah and not only did she know about it, she still stuck around and not for fear of her life. This crazy bitch, actually did love Cyril, Road, and Tyki. It might have been the weirdest thing but even stranger still, was the fact that the three of them all loved her in their own way. Road adored the woman like a mother, even though she was 40 years older. Cyril loved her as much as he was capable of actual emotions other than mania and rage, which wasn't really that much but it meant something. And Tyki was besotted with her, inappropriately so actually. Hell, even the Earl liked her. The shit made no sense but whatever, as long as he got food, a bed, and clean clothes he couldn't care less.

She finally managed to coax his new "uncle" over to sit down with them and Wisely could see that the man was shaking like a leaf. If he didn't have his jaw clenched, his teeth actually chattered. In a way he felt bad deriving so much joy from seeing the normally unflappable Tyki with his feathers so ruffled. Tyki was far and away the nicest and most charming of his new family. When he had first met them and gone "home" to Cyril's country estate, he had been convinced that they were a bunch of snooty fops but then Tyki took him out to a whore house, got him drunk, and explained where he and Cyril had come from and after that he decided Tyki was ok, if lazy as shit. Cyril was passable but seemed busy all the time and he was pretty sure the guy was bi-polar. But then again, what did he expect, the worst thing you can do to Pleasure is force him to do something he doesn't like and the worst thing you can do to Desire he give him nothing to do.

Trisha poured Tyki a glass of very strong smelling liquor. He couldn't tell the difference by smell like Cyril could. And Road taunted him from above, "what's the matter Tyki, don't you want to come up and play with us?"

"No, I'm good right here, thanks," he didn't even look up but downed the shot in his glass, she poured him another sensible amount but he waved his fingers for her to continue. Tyki was easy to read, especially compared to his brother. Cyril's mind wasn't so much like a steel jaw trap like the Earl, but more like a serious of winding, spider web passages ways that doubled back and interconnected in the most illogical fashion, each of them filled with crumbling floors and roots that grabbed at your feet. Both he and Road were in perfect agreement on Cyril's mental instability and that no matter how brilliant and manipulative he was, he was also one step away from ax crazy, even for a Noah. Dezaiasu had never been like that before, the introduction of insanity was from Cyril.

Tyki, Tyki on the other hand was actually the far more stable and predictable one. Whether he intended to or not, he wore his heart on his sleeve or more to the point, those big, brown eyes of his. Half the time Wisely didn't even have to read his mind to know what he was thinking. But sometimes, he did, but not now. Right now it was pretty obvious his uncle was thinking about strangling his niece. He could sense the fear though, even if hadn't have been able to see it. It was deep and dark, and so long held, he didn't know how to get past it. He was terrified.

"So it boats, water, or drowning you are afraid of?" Wisely asked him.

"It's all of the above, isn't it Tyki-pet?" Road asked him as she floated down on Lero.

"Don't you start," he went to swipe at her and the ship pitched and he grabbed onto Tricia's hand.

"But seriously, what exactly are you so afraid of?" Wisely pressed.

"Deep water that you can't see the bottom of; swimming in it, being on a boat on it, walking near it. I've had a phobia of it, pretty much my entire life," Tyki answered and Tricia patted his hand on her lap. He wondered, as he had wondered multiple times, if she was sleeping with Tyki on the side but decided again that neither of them would do that to Cyril. But past that, as Tyki talked, he could see images in Tyki's mind of falling into cold water and having it cover his head, standing by a dock, holding Cyril's hand as bodies covered in sail cloth were stacked beside them, a rough voyage and a much younger Cyril sitting beside him and letting him cry, and strangely a church and a row of candles.

"That doesn't make any sense," Road interrupted his not quite prying. "You can walk on water, walk on air if you don't feel like getting your feet wet, and most importantly when you are incorporeal, you don't need to breathe. And if all else fails, Cyril can just lift the boat up and carry it back to port. You have no reason to be scared," she finished as she crouched right in front of him on the damn umbrella.

"That's the whole point of a phobia, it's irrational. You can explain to be a hundred times how safe it is but it doesn't change the fact I hate it." He had resorted to drinking out of the bottle.

"That's just stupid," she told him.

"Road, don't pick on your uncle," Tricia scolded her and Tyki smirked slightly. The Earl watched the entire thing with wild grin.

The day progressed much the same way, with Tyki mostly petrified, Road teasing him, Tricia trying to mediate, and Cyril ignoring them and sailing the ship. It was fun but he had to agree with Tyki. Once Cyril finally coaxed him into the riggings and he saw how high he was and felt the sway of the ship from up there, he was more than happy to have his feet on solid ground. The fact that Cyril used to do that in the topsails of tall ships just reminded him that he was either fearless, stupid, or crazy.

By the time they had docked, Road was nearly sleeping, the Earl had consumed his own weight in fish, he had blisters from helping Cyril do something with some really rough ropes, and Tyki was drunk as shit from consuming nearly ¾ of a bottle of scotch. The Earl and the ladies opted to take a carriage home and he chose to walk with Cyril and Tyki, because maybe all that swaying on the ship had made him a little queasy. He used to term walking loosely for Tyki, who was more half swaying and half being carried by his brother. It was actually pretty entertaining watching Cyril try and keep him upright. Sort of like wrangling a 180 pound sleeping cat. He wondered why Cyril just didn't levitate him but then again there were other people around.

They meandered quietly through the streets until Cyril finally broke the silence, "you realize, that was the first time you have been on a boat since you 8 years old?"

"And I will more than happily wait another 18 before getting on one again," he slurred in response and rested his head on his brother's shoulder. "It was kind of nice though, to see you smile for real," he added quietly and Wisely felt a slight stab of jealousy. He had no real family, not like Jasdero and Devitt or Tyki and Cyril. He could see in Tyki's mind that even with how scared he had been he had been glad to see his brother really and truly happy and relaxed for once. Tyki was always very concerned about making Cyril happy.

Wisely had figured out early on that the goofy demeanor and constant flirting by his "father" were just a ruse. Obfuscating stupidity to hide how shrewd and dangerous he really was. He had a plan for everyone and was the unquestioned leader if the Earl wasn't around. Oddly though, he expected the least out of Tyki but Tyki was the most concerned with making him proud. In some respects they acted more like father and son than brothers until they started joking with each other than it was all brothers.

"By the way, why are we walking, instead of riding?" Tyki asked.

"Because if I let you ride in the carriage, you probably would have puked in there," Cyril explained.

"I would not," Tyki pouted, as they walked through the ornate park that lead to the drive of Cyril's house in Lisbon. "I can hold my liquor."

"You would too, I bet I could get you vomit right now," Cyril challenged.

"No way," Tyki pulled himself up to walk on his own, still staggering.

"Oh, can play?" Wisely asked, interested to see what the point of this little game was.

"Of course you can, my little nephew, take your best shot," Tyki drunkenly threw his arm around him and he was pretty sure he got a buzz off the smell of his breath.

"Hmm, how about a dog shit sandwich served on moldy bread?" Both he and Cyril laughed.

"Amateur," Tyki taunted.

"A dead hooker with her guts hanging out," he tried again.

"Please I did worse than that to Allen Walker then went and got dinner."

"My turn," Cyril smiled gleefully. "Speaking of Allen Walker, you put a Teaze into his heart, didn't you," Tyki nodded. "How does it feel to have them under your skin like that, worming and wiggling against your organs, butterfly wings, tickling the eyes and the back of your throat?" Tyki swallowed loudly but kept walking. Cyril caught up to him, nonchalantly pulling up his sleeve and scratching at his forearm, "better butterflies than maggots."

Tyki made it two more steps before groaning, "you are a horrible person," and bending over to puke in a flower bed. Cyril held his hair back for him.

"I know, but at least I didn't bring up the teeth," Tyki groaned again and Cyril added, "and if you hit my shoes you're cleaning them with your tongue."

 _Maggots and teeth? What an odd thing to make someone that sick._ Wisely thought to himself.

**10 years ago** **Catholic Hospital – Oporto, Portugal**

Marshal Cross Marian tried not to grump too much at the rain drizzling onto his hat. At least he got the longer end of the stick on this one. Poor Maria was stuck in Greenland in February, while he was in Portugal. He dodged a spray of rainwater kicked up by a passing carriage and felt Timcampy flap to keep his balance. This whole trip seemed odd to him. Normally the Black Order didn't send Exorcists, especially Marshals to simple cases of possible demonic possession. But he had agreed to go, mainly because his friend Father Patrick Murphy had requested it. He walked into the lobby of the Catholic hospital and flagged down a nun to help him. She nodded at his request and bade him to wait in a seat until she returned. He sat beside a heavily pregnant woman, who he was pretty sure was in labor, and waited.

He grew cranky then sleepy at having to wait for so long and allowed the warmth of the room to lull him into a doze. He floated happily in a half awake state until he heard, "so I see you haven't gotten yourself killed yet and got promoted?"

He didn't even open his eyes, "much to the chagrin of those higher up, I dare say." He finally cracked his eyes open and was met by the smiling face of Father Patrick Murphy. "It's good to see you old friend," he held his hand out but was pulled into an embrace. "Come this way, you can dry off and get some coffee," he led them towards the back of the hospital up some winding stairs and to a largish office with paper tacked all over the walls and time outlines drawn on black boards. Lists and lists of things were written everywhere. He snorted, this was just how Pat worked.

Father Patrick Brian Murphy was in his late 30s, hale and healthy with a thick head of black hair only slightly greying at the temples, green eyes, and biceps that would make a boxer jealous. He was the second son of cloth merchant from Dublin, an oxford educated psychiatrist, and the Vatican's foremost expert on hunting demons. Not Akuma but demons. They tended to cross paths now and again but not too often, his type of demons weren't affected by innocence and akuma couldn't care less about holy water.

"Have a seat," the man waved his hand and lit a cigarette. Cross felt no guilt following suite. Once they were both settled with coffee and smokes, he started, "so what have they told you about this case?"

"Not much, just that the Parish Priest thought it was a possible demonic possession and you requested a member of the Black Order to be here. I saw it was from you and volunteered," he smiled and if pressed would never say it was also to go someplace warmer than England. "What can you tell me?"

"The patient is a 15 year old male," he handed Cross a large folder with quite a few hand written notes in it. "He's an orphan that has been raised by his older brother. Both of them are half Irish and half Portuguese and he at least appears to be a devout Catholic. From what I have been able to get from him, when he's coherent, the symptoms started about 4 months ago with hearing a voice in his head. It progressed to full blown auditory, then visual, olfactory, and gustatory hallucinations and a feeling that he wasn't alone inside his own body." The man continued to rattle off symptoms of general craziness.

"Come on, there has to be a reason why you don't think this guy is a garden variety nut case?" Cross prodded.

"There are signs of physical illness that come go, for example at 6 am he'll have a temperature of 109," that raised Cross's eye brows. "Then by 8 am his temp is in the 70s. Projectile vomiting, even when he hasn't eaten anything for 6 days straight. Severe pain that doesn't respond to opiates," Murphy explained. "We've run every test we can think of on him and everything comes back normal. The only thing we haven't completely ruled out is epilepsy but he has no history of seizures. And of course there is this," he slid a picture across the desk.

Cross picked it up and examined it. It was a picture of someone's hands, resting against their legs and in the center of each palm was a cross shaped cut. There were traces of blood welling from one of them, it looked darker than usual. It must have been a trick of the lighting. "Stigmata?" he asked then continued, "were they self-inflicted?" It wasn't uncommon for religious lunatics to maim themselves in religious ways.

"They happened while he was restrained it bed," he pushed two other pictures over. One was of a throat and another cross shaped cut and the final one was a forehead with a row of weeping stigmata across them. Cross had never seen a  _Crown of Thorns_  before. It was the rarest of the rare, when it came to Stigmatics. "Those come and go, causing him a great deal of pain but the ones on his hands seem to stay the longest." This was piquing his interest.

"So why are you so convinced he's possessed rather than an Ecstatic or Mystic? Stigmata are usually associated by those chosen by God for Religious purpose."

"I'm not 100% convinced he is possessed but the nature of his hallucinations point towards it. He doesn't see happy heavenly choirs but death and destruction. The Voice, and there is only one, shows him visions of murder and rape. He mumbles about floods and water and drowning a lot. But mostly because he has a certain obsession with maggot, blood, and destruction of mankind; which leans more towards a demon talking to him than an angel," the man explained.

"The water part sounds vaguely religious. It could be a reference to Baptism or the Great Flood?" Cross countered.

"I thought of that too but according to the brother, he nearly drowned when he was kid and ever since then has been aquaphotic and thalassophbic," Cross gave him a confused look at the medical jargon. "He's afraid of drowning and open water, to the point that he'll walk through dark alleys rather than walk along the docks. So talking about water could just be a manifestation of his own anxiety."

"Can I see him?" Father Murphy rose and waved Cross to follow him.

"I'm not sure if he is coherent or not, usually he is more not but there is a window you can see him through. He became agitated earlier today, when his brother left and we had to give him 2000 mgs of Chlorpromazine."

"And you think he's still alive?" Cross questioned, that was 500 mg past the highest therapeutic dose recommended. The kid was probably in a drug induced coma. Murphy just gave him an odd look.

They turned into a room two down from the office that had a large set of drapes, covering a window. Murphy pulled the drapes aside and revealed a rubber room with only a small window some 10 feet in the air, covered with iron bars. There was no bed or chairs, just a sad looking boy trussed in a straitjacket. Cross studied him for a moment; he had longish wavy hair that fell into his face. Large brown eyes with a mole under his left one, a wide generous mouth and lanky limbs of an adolescent that would probably be quite tall when he was done growing. He would say he was handsome, if he weren't so pitiable looking. He seemed to have not noticed them, and stared dazedly towards the window, every now and again thumping his head against the wall.

"Is he dangerous?" Cross asked, as he watched a drop of blood roll down the boy's face.

"Only to himself. If we don't keep him restrained, he claws at his skin or chews on his fingers. He ended up in here because he used a kitchen knife to slice his arms and legs up, while is brother was at work. He also scratched his left wrist all the way to bone, while here," Cross raised an eyebrow as Timcampy moved to get a closer look at the window. The golem's interest was interesting to him. "He's convinced there are maggots and bugs under his skin. And before you give me that look, opium and or alcohol addiction were the first things we looked for but he's been here for nearly 4 weeks with no drugs except what we give him."

Cross watched the kid curl into himself and rest his forehead on his knees. He was trembling like he was in pain and mumbling. The Marshal scratched his beard and sighed. "A sad case to be sure, I won't deny you that. But either this guy is possessed by your type of demon, in which case I'm useless, or he is severely schizophrenic and I'm again useless."

"A fair assessment, generally except the physical symptoms make pure psychiatric illness unlikely along with the stigmata." Cross had no choice but to agree. "As for demonic possession, he doesn't react to holy water or the name of Christ." That was interesting. The types of demons that Murphy hunted couldn't stand the name of God or holy water being near them, they screeched and yelled and tried to get away.

"So what are you thinking then that he is an akuma?"

The man sighed and ran his scared hand over his short hair. "I don't' know what I'm thinking but there is something going on here, I just can't figure it out," he led them out and across the hall into another observation room. "I stood here and watched the kid sleeping and then he started screaming like he had been lit on fire. Before I could get in there, he somehow lifted the bed." Cross looked through the window and noted this room looked more like an average hospital room rather than a rubber room. It had a chair, a desk, a bed, and a larger window with no bars.

Murphy led them into the room itself. "And when I say he lifted the bed, I don't mean with his hands, I mean it was levitating off the floor by a good 4 feet, while he was strapped to it with restraints. Then when he dropped it, this happened," he pointed at the ground and Marian could see that the hollow metal legs of the bed had been sunken into the floor boards, but not like they had been driven in, more like they had fused. "In all of these types of cases I have worked, I've never seen anything like that." Cross rose and looked at the desk, there were words carved into it though he didn't know what they were. "He did that with his finger nails before we stopped him." He could see flecks of blood that hadn't been cleaned.

"What does it say?" he asked.

"No idea but every time he can, he writes it or mumbles it, I think." The man excited the room and led them back to his office, sinking down and lighting another cigarette. "I heard him babbling it first and thought it might be Hebrew and called a Rabi to see if he could understand. When that didn't work I went to others and finally found a professor in Madrid that thinks it's Hattic."

"Never heard of it."

"No one has. It's was a dead language by the time Sargon the First showed up."

"Xenoglossia?" Curiouser and curiouser, Cross thought. Even though it was only 2pm, the man pulled out a bottle of whisky.

"I'm wondering if the kid is an Ecstatic, a special kind, an Innocence accommodator," he finally spit out. Both of them knew the importance of Exorcists but they both also knew that damning a kid that young to it would be a cruelty almost worse than death.

"You might be right. What can you tell me about him, his home life, his name?" He leaned back and accepted the drink. Hey, it was 5 o'clock somewhere.

"There isn't much to tell," he took his file back, "His Christian name is Taicligh Michael McMahon and he was born in the city of Cork, Ireland and baptized at St. Anne's church a week after his birth. His father was sailor, named Thomas McMahon and had a mother named Anna McMahon nie Camilote, who was a maid and most likely a prostitute from Portugal. They both drown nearly 9 years ago when the ship they were working on sank. About a year later, the two of them came to mainland Europe, landed in France and made their way to Portugal, where they settled.

"Birth records indicate that she had 7 children, 5 girls and 2 boys and but only Taicligh and the last daughter were after her marriage to McMahon. The two boys are the only ones surviving. All the girls died quite young of illness or accidents. As I mentioned before, he has a brother that he lives with, Cyril Camilote, who is nearly 6 years his elder. He appears to be a Son of Gun who was never baptized and the birth records indicate his father was  _The Gunner_ , which in naval parlance is a nice way to say she fucked her way across Spithead and has no idea who the dad is.

"Anyway, Tyki, as he goes by now since no one can seem to pronounce his name right, works as a dishwasher in a Pub his brother waits tables at and part time laborer on the docks. He has about 3 years of formal schooling but seems to be able to read and write in English and Portuguese fluently. I also suspect he speaks some Gaelic but haven't been able to prove it. The older one talked to him in the old tongue but stopped once he realized I understood him. He apparently plays the fiddle and some mandolin and would like to learn the piano. Anyway, he seems bright but spends more time talking about how smart his brother is."

"Is he, the brother I mean, is he that smart?" Cross wondered if the brother was actually the demon and he was feeding off of Tyki.

"It's tough to say. He's a waiter that works on weekends and vacations on short run ships, maybe or most probably some smuggling. He's a rigger from the look of him," he smiled at Cross's confused look. "He's all arms and legs and his hands are rough enough to take paint off a post," he poured them a second drink. "I would say he's a typical Cork Dockyard thug, except that he just graduated from University first in his class with a double major in Political Science and International Finance and sat for entrance to the Law School with an intent to study Maritime law. He's set to finish first, though there is no record of him ever attended a day of school beforehand."

"You've had all these facts checked?"

"What I could. I haven't heard back from inquiries in Cork but I can tell ya' from the accent that they didn't lie about having lived there. I talked to the people that know them here in town and everything they both said checks out. Taicligh is said to be friendly and a happy sort, with the traditional Irish gift of gab and charm, though a little lazy. Cyril is not as well liked but clearly well  _respected_  mostly because he keeps to himself so much. He's said to be a bit standoffish and I suspect has a reputation for violence. The majority of men seemed wary to even talk about him and most said something to the effect of, 'don't get on his bad side,' but his two bosses thought he was the nicest most upstanding person they knew. They seem like mostly average people from all accounts."

"Except for the clearly above average intelligence of the elder and the possible demonic possession/accommodator status of the younger?" Cross challenged. Thinking about it, he was impressed. They would have been 12 and 6 when their parents died and they managed to move around Europe unaided. Cyril Camilote must really be a smart cookie or very lucky.

"Except for that," the man smiled slightly.

"I think I would like to talk to him," Cross rose. He was interested to see if any of the Innocence he carried reacted to the kid plus he found it very odd Tim had stayed behind to keep watch.

"We can try but we'll probably do better once the brother's here. He's always calmer and more coherent when Cyril's around." Murphy and Cross waited for the orderly to unlock the padded room. The kid had his back to the door, facing the corner. His forehead was propped up against the wall, leaving a red smear from where blood was oozing out of it. "Good afternoon, Taicligh, how are you doing?" The boy didn't turn around but shrugged to show that he understood. "If you're tired we can come back later," he gave the kid an opening.

"Where's Cyril?" he asked and Cross noticed when he said his brother's name it sounded like  _Sheril_  rather than Cyril, with a much more heavily rolled  _R_. It could be an accent difference between Dublin and Cork or it could be that the kid was drugged to gills. Though he vaguely recalled hearing other Irishmen speak with that lisping  _Sh,_  when others would have just used an  _S_.

"Your brother's at work, he'll be back later tonight, like he always is," Murphy answered. It was a bit odd for a 15 year old to be that worried about his brother but then again Nea and Mana had been like that too.

"He's on the sea again, it isn't safe out there. He can't walk on water. He'll drown, everyone drowns. Bloated and rotting, they don't float for very long if they leave the ship," the kid slurred, drooping further down the wall.

"You are right, only Jesus Christ could walk on water," Cross noticed the complete lack of reaction to the name of Christ. "I'm sure he's fine. The seas are calm today," Murphy tried to soothe, with a little white lie. Cross had seen the water pitching like mad even at the shore. He didn't even want to think about being on deep water in this.

"It's raining. It's always raining. People die when it rains, stinking and teaming with maggots. Why won't the smell go away?" he smashed his forehead against the padded wall with an impotent thud. Smelling things that weren't there was usually a sign of an imminent seizure or maybe a brain tumor but Father Murphy seemed unconcerned.

"Calm down, now, nothing in here smells bad and there are no maggots. We've talked about this, it's all in your head, remember?" The boy whimpered and shook his head  _yes_. "That's good, Taicligh, it's good that you remember," the man's voice went from comforting to happy. "Would you turn around, I have someone I would like you to meet," the kid turned slowly, his movements clumsy from too many sedatives. The whole thing reminded him of a father trying to coax a shy child out from behind his mother's skirts. "This is Cross, he's an old friend of mine."

Cross tried to look as non-threatening as he could, while fully dressed, carrying a gun, and standing over a 15 year old kid in a straitjacket. "Hi," he waved, and Timcampy fluttered over to nuzzle at the boy's hair. He watched the kid squint at him for a heartbeat, maybe two, before he felt all the Innocence he had start to vibrate and Tim shot back to hide behind him. On instinct he pulled back his coat and freed his weapon as he watched Tyki go ridged with pain then start shrieking like a cat caught in a meat grinder. Blood started to drip wildly from his forehead and his eyes turned a glowing, gold.

"You, I hate you! Never forgive. I'll kill you and break it, destroy it! Never forgive! I'll turn your heart to fucking dust!" he shouted as purple energy seemed to crackle off of him and he rose into the air. Murphy looked as stunned as the orderly behind him, as they both went to tackle the now floating kid. Neither of them could though, when they went to touch him, they passed right through him like he was a ghost. Cross played a hunch and drew Judgment, taking a bullet from the chamber and pressing it against the kid's forehead. While the other's couldn't touch him, the bullet wouldn't pass through him, however it started to crack and crumble, making Tyki howl even louder. However the closer the Innocence got to him, the more it vibrated and the more Tyki thrashed and fought to get to him.

He backed out of the room as more orderlies piled in. And he saw they eventually managed to touch him and inject him with more Chlorpromazine, which seemed to marginally calm him down. That in and of itself was odd because after the dose they gave him earlier and this one, by all rights he should be dead or at least comatose but he seemed awake but groggy. He waited in the hall for Murphy as the man emerged and saw the door locked. He suspected that the door wouldn't stop the kid if he really wanted out.

"That was interesting?" Cross started.

"I've never seen him act like that. He's never been threatening or violent towards anyone. We keep him sedated mostly so he doesn't hurt himself or spend all day pacing," the man explained as he fixed his collar, which had come eschew in the struggle.

"I think it's safe to say he isn't an accommodator, not the way he reacted to being around Innocence." Tim swooped over and settled onto his head, no longer wanting to keep watch apparently. "But what I find more interesting, is the way the Innocence reacted to him," he mused as they returned to Murphy's office.

"What do you mean?"

"Normally Innocence is neutral to people except its accommodator or an akuma. That guy is clearly not an akuma, if he were, Judgment would have destroyed him, but the unforged Innocence I'm carrying seemed afraid of him. I've also never seen something that can make Innocence crack like that," he ran his hand through his hair. "I think it's safe to say that there is something with or inside of that kid we need to deal with but I'm not sure what. I'm going to send a message to HQ and get that Komui twerp to research this. Then I think we need to talk to the brother." He would also contact Maria too. There was a thought, right on the tip of his mental tongue that told him he could probably use some back up.

)()()()()()()()()()()(

Cyril trudged through the wet streets after a wet day at sea and hoped he wouldn't find his brother any worse than he had when he had left. It seemed every time he saw his brother he was slipping deeper and deeper into insanity and he was sick with worry. Tyki was all he had left, everyone else had died from disease or accidents. He and Tyki were the only ones that had made it and now they had a chance. He had worked so hard to get through school, so they could live somewhere safe where they didn't' have to worry about being robbed or killed and they could have good food to eat rather than cheap soda bread and moldy cheese. Where they would have clean sheets and feather beds, all the things they had never had. But it didn't matter now, not with Tyki this sick.

He suppressed a sigh and nodded at the nun minding the front desk, she nodded back, not even questioning him. After nearly 4 weeks, they were used to seeing him. He turned left to the kitchen to inquire if Tyki had had his supper yet and when the answer was no, he offered to take the tray himself. His long legs ate the stairs two at a time. He was sore, exhausted, and his head was killing him. The sea had been a right cruel bitch today and had thrown them all to and fro until he wondered if they would get home.

He smiled at the orderly sitting at the end of the hall by Tyki's new room. He was glad that they had moved him to one that faced away from the bay. His brother always had hard time sleeping if he could see or hear the ocean. Just as the orderly was about to open the door, Father Murphy came out and called him into his office. He grumbled to himself but turned around. He hadn't had his supper yet either.

"Cyril, I have someone here that would like to talk to you for a moment, if he may?" The priest smiled at him, looking down at the tray. "I see you brought your brother his meal. I'll take it to him and you can talk to my colleague," he took the food from his hands and ushered him into the office. "Cyril, this is Cross Marian, he's a member of the Catholic clergy as well."

 _Great more fucking priests_ , he thought but held out his hand, "It's nice to meet you Father Marian." Before the man reached for him, a yellow ball that looked like the bastard child of a canary and a dandelion buzzed around him, even going so far as to burrow into his hair. "What the hell is that thing?"

"Timcampy, and call me Cross, I'm not a priest," the other man stood to greet him and was tall, taller even than himself, which was saying something because he was 6'3". He had thick red hair, he wore long, strange black coat, and smelled like a brothel. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about this guy set his teeth on edge. It made him want to grab Tyki and run but also punch his fist straight through the guy's throat and tear his spine out.

"I'll let you two talk, while I take this to Taicligh," Father Murphy stepped out, closing the door behind him. Cyril said nothing but couldn't help rubbing his hand across his forehead. It seemed like he had had a headache for the last 4 weeks or maybe it was months or years. He wasn't sure.

"Have a seat," Cross motioned to him and he shook his head, knowing he wouldn't want to get back up once he sat down, plus this man made him nervous. He wanted his feet under him; instead he drifted to the window to look out. He couldn't see much through the rain but he knew the ocean was out there, not far away. "Would you like one," he glanced over and the red head was offering him a cigarette.

"Not thank you, I don't smoke," he declined and turned back to the window. While it looked like he was watching the water, he could actually watch the clergyman behind him's reflection.

"Tell me about your brother?" he asked.

"What would you like to know?" he shot back and spent the next 20 minutes retelling and or answering questions he had answered a million times already.  _No his brother was not a drunk or a drug addict. No, he had never had a seizure. No he didn't know if there was a history of insanity in their family. No, he had not found any sulfur or seen black smoke in their house. No he hadn't hit his head. No, no, no, no, no!_

He was getting tired of this, no one seemed to know what was wrong with Tyki and it was making him cranky plus his fucking head was throbbing so much it was making him nauseous. His thoughts were interrupted, "what do you think is wrong with your brother?" the man asked.

"I don't know, I'm not a doctor," he answer and gave into resting his head against the cool window pane. He felt confined and trapped in this room, like he couldn't breathe and his head hurt so much. He probably just needed a good night's sleep.

"So you think it's a medical condition?" Cross's voice was low, almost soothing except for the feeling of utter disquiet around him.

"What else could it be?" he countered.

"You don't think it could be spiritual in nature?" he blew a stream of foul smelling smoke at him and Cyril closed his eyes, seriously considered bending over and puking, if he had anything in his stomach. His soul desire at that moment was that the wretched smoke would go somewhere else. After a moment it seemed not to bother him as much. When he opened his eyes again, Cross was sitting forward, watching him. He guessed he should answer.

"I believe that physical problems usually have a physical reason rather than spiritual. People used to thing that thunder was caused by Thor fighting frost giants but now we know it's caused by the expansion of the air following a lightning strike. Maybe science just hasn't figured out what is wrong with my brother yet," he answered.

"There's a difference between the foolish thinking of a primitive, pagan people and what is going on with Tyki," the man tried, and Cyril saw the weird yellow ball thing, come flying at him but stop short of touching him this time.

"And who's to say in a 1000 years people won't look back and say that Catholicism wasn't the silly rationalization of an unenlightened people?" he questioned, feeling contrary.

"I take it you aren't a practicing member of the church then?" the man chuckled.

"I don't believe in saints, angel, God, or demonic possession," he stated.

"What if demons believe in you?"

"Then they should come get me and leave my kid brother alone!" he tired of this and walked into the hallway, feeling less anxious the further away he got from Cross. He stopped at Tyki's door, where Father Murphy sat, giving the orderly a break. He wouldn't have agreed to let this man treat his brother if he hadn't also been a doctor. Tyki was the religious one, not him. He never saw much use for asking others for help, be they human, saints, or God. A man needed to control his own future, not leave it up something that may or may not come through.

"How is he doing, Dr. Murphy?" he asked the other Irishman.

"He won't eat, but that's not surprising. We had to give him a sedative earlier. He had a bit of an episode when Cross went in to talk to him but he seems to have calmed down now. He been asking for you every 15 minutes since the sun went down," the man smiled at him and patted his shoulder before turning to open the door. Cyril realized he hadn't even taken off his coat yet.

He entered Tyki's room and removed his coat. His brother was in the corner, with his knees pulled up to his chest and his forehead resting on them. He still had his straitjacket on and Cyril wondered how the hell they expected him to eat with his arms pinned. Did they expect him to lap at his food like a fucking dog? He looked up, his forehead was bleeding again and he wondered how he had managed to hurt it in a padded room. The smile was genuine though and Cyril smiled in return. "Hi Laddy boy," he greeted and Tyki clumsily tried to get up to meet him. He fell though, curling in on himself and groaning. "Stay where you are, if it hurts to move, you pretty fool," he teased and knelt down to stroke his brother's hair.

Tyki leaned into the touch, "I missed you Cyril. Father Murphy brought someone in here with him. I didn't like him. He wouldn't come close enough for me turn his heart to dust." He leaned his forehead against Cyril's leg.

"Well they're gone now, so don't worry," he continued to stroke Tyki's hair until he relaxed a bit. "I brought you supper, you should eat," he tried, waiting for the protest. Tyki hadn't eaten willingly in weeks, not that Cyril could blame him. He vomited back up almost everything he swallowed. Frankly he didn't know how his brother was still alive much less no thinner than when he had come into the hospital.

Tyki shook his head 'no' against his leg mumbled, "it tastes like blood. It all tastes like blood and they bake teeth into it and they hurt when you swallow them. Pretty white teeth, plucked out one by one and if I eat them they'll chew their way out."

Cyril bowed his head and had to seriously fight not to cry. "No teeth, Laddy boy, I promise. It's just beef broth. I would never feed you something that would hurt you," he tried again but Tyki just inched closer, almost climbing in his lap. "Please, for me, will you try it?" he begged.

"It'll taste like blood and ash. And if you bleed too much they'll throw you off the boat and you die if you aren't on the boat," he mumbled then looked up at his brother and sighed. "Ok, Cyril, I'll try," and he finally sounded mostly like himself. He smiled and added, "but you have to hold my hair back, if I puke."

"Deal," Cyril winked at him and tried to shake the feeling of being watched. He suspected the Father and Cross where on the other side of the window. They could watch all he wanted, as long as Tyki ate. H crawled over and hooked the tray with his finger, uncovering the crock of broth. Tyki looked at it, turning pale and closing his eyes. "It's ok, Laddy boy, it's just soup," he soothed.

He contemplated whether he should ask to have the jacket taken off of his brother, so he could feed himself but decided against it. They might say no and he might blow a gasket. He spooned a bit of the delicious smelling broth up and Tyki looked at it, biting his lip. "Are you sure, it's just soup?" he asked.

"I promise, just soup," he ate some to prove his point. "No teeth, no maggots, no beetles, not even a bone to be had," he sing-songed at his brother, who still looked at the bowl like it was poison. "If it bothers you, don't look at it," he tried and held the spoon closer to Tyki, who finally opened his mouth, then immediately spit the food back out in his face.

"Sorry," Tyki apologized, sounding contrite. "It tastes like blood." Cyril gave him a stiff smile and wiped beef broth and spittle off his face with the inside of his elbow. "You aren't going to punch me, are you?" Tyki asked.

"No, I'm 'na gonna punch ya," he answered, letting his brogue roll more than usual, "I might sit on you and hold your nose until you open your mouth though."

"Wouldn't using the spoon to pretend it's a boat and my mouth is the dock work better?" Tyki questioned, a mischievous glint in his eye. Cyril was too happy to see it to even be mad that he got spit on.

"I don't know, depends if you plan to continue acting like a toddler that doesn't want to eat his meal?" he teased. Tyki pouted and Cyril rolled his eyes, but took the spoon and made  _whooshing_ noises to mimic a ship as he moved the spoon closer to his brother's mouth. Tyki finally swallowed it and he counted it as a small victory. "Just so you know, I'm not changing you after this," he threw out, making Tyki snort but his eyes showed mirth and it was good enough for now.

Afterwards, they both settled down and Cyril filled his brother in on the gossip from the docks and deflected questions about Law School. He was spending the money he had saved up for school to pay for Tyki to be here but he didn't need to know that. He needed to concentrate on getting better. After about three quarters of an hour, Tyki yawned hugely from where he was leaning against Cyril's side. He loved his brother, he truly did but his touch feely streak tended to get on his nerves sometimes. He supposed he would put up with it for now, Tyki had been locked up in this room or another for weeks with no real companionship unless Cyril was there.

"Get some sleep, Laddy," he forced Tyki to lie down on the padded floor. He had to admit it was comfortable and convenient.

"Will you stay?" he looked up, for all the world seeming a 4 year old that wanted to follow his big brother everywhere again.

"Aye, I'll stay as long as they let me, but you need to sleep." Tyki agreed but scooted over so his head was resting in Cyril's lap and he sighed. "You sure are a clingy kid, aren't you?" he joked.

"I'm lonely, I don't have a pillow, and I've missed you. The Voice in my head isn't very good company," he explained but closed his eyes and relaxed as Cyril stroked his hair like a cat.

"Go to sleep, Tyki-pet, and tell the Voice to be more interesting or leave." He watched his brother relax into sleep and leaned his head back, hoping to catch a few minutes of rest himself.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

_Tyki watched the rain fall from under the doorway he was huddled in. His complain pulled his hood tighter around this face. The place and the man were familiar, safe, though Tyki had never seen them before. It was an opulent cathedral that overlooked a river. He watched a barge filled to brim with corpses float down it. The smell reached them even where they stood, making him want to gag._

" _Do you think this is a punishment from god?" he asked. "Like the flood from so long ago?"_

" _Those are awfully weighty thoughts for you, Joida," his companion answered. He had never heard that name before but knew it was his or maybe hers. For some reason he thought he was a woman. He felt something move inside of him and rested his hand on the side of his stomach. Dezaiasu, his child's name would be Dezaiasu, though it would have some Christian name. Stranger still was he could tell the man was speaking French to him, yet he could understand it. He had never learned how to speak it, trusting Cyril to guide them._

" _I just wonder if it means something or if it is just nature playing games with us? Even I have a hard time finding pleasure when surrounded by rotting corpses covered in pus filled blisters," he answered, as a man walked by, staggering and coughing._

" _I suppose it shows that there is a part of us that is still human, even after all this time."_

" _I suppose," he answered back._

" _We should get going, the Earl will expect us," they took off through the streets, each one was filled with more and more rotting bodies and rats. He lifted his sleeve to cover his nose. The smell was making him want to wretch. They turned the corner and were met with a vicious battle between the Earl and 5 men clad in black. Priests of the black order, filthy Innocence carrying vermin! They would destroy them, maim them, crush their weapons and their skulls. He charged._

_He managed to sever the head of one of the priests but another snatched it back, yanking out the dead man's front tooth, then cast an Innocence net over him. He was trapped, unable to phase through the net. The priest stomped on his throat, forcing his mouth open and shoving the silver tooth down his throat. It burned, it burned like fire and death. He screeched and clawed at his neck, trying to bring the vile thing back up, but it seemed to chew through his insides, eating him from the inside out. He flailed and staggered, toppling into an open grave filled with bloated bodies. Blisters popped and covered him with black pus, and softened skin slid from bone, all the while he burned._

_He heard his companion call his name but couldn't answer, he didn't have a throat left to speak through. He wanted to tell Dezaiasu he was sorry, he hadn't meant to leave him but he didn't have a choice. All he could do was burn._

Tyki shot into the air, feeling his insides boil with remembered pain. He groaned as he swore he could feel the tooth inside of him, trying to eat its way out.

"Laddy boy, are you ok?" Cyril asked him. He sounded like Tyki had woken him up.

"Argh," he groaned, sitting up on his knees as his stomach clenched and convulsed. Cyril watched him for a moment then shot into the bathroom and grabbed a basin, getting it in front of him but not before he had vomited all over himself. He did keep good on his promise to hold his hair back. He retched, wanting to bring up that horrible tooth he had swallowed in his dream but it wasn't there, just blood, lots of warm, vile smelling blood but then he coughed and tooth came up. It didn't stop with one. Each time his stomach pitched, he choked up teeth, hundreds of them, all coated in blood and saliva. He heard Cyril swear and vaguely heard the Father come in. The teeth tore at his throat and burned, like they were trying to chew their way out of him.

It took a long time, or at least it seemed that way to him, for it to stop. He hurt and the Voice said, "that's what happens when you don't finish them all off and crush that hateful Innocence. They burn you and kill your family. You must never forgive them. There is one here. The only way to protect yourself and Cyril is to let me wake up." He whimpered and curled around his stomach.

He felt Cyril stroking his hair and trying to coax him to sit up. He noticed for the first time he had bloody vomit all over his jacket and chin. It tasted awful in his mouth and almost made him gag again. He closed his eyes and let Cyril wipe the blood from his chin with a cloth and warm water, then offer him a cup to rinse his mouth out. He also felt the Father removing the soiled straitjacket. He felt limp and shaky as he tried to catch his breath. He leaned forward, bowing his head and could feel Cyril's hand in his hair.

"Cyril, I'm scared," he whispered to his brother, feeling tears start to drip from his eyes. He had tried to be strong this whole time. He tried not to complain at being locked in a room and tied to beds. He knew it was for his own good but he didn't feel so brave right now, not after vomiting up teeth and blood that he was pretty sure he never swallowed. Not when he remembered dreams of being himself but also another person, not when he remembered dying.

"I know, Laddy, I know," Cyril whispered back to him from where he knelt in front of him. His brother kissed the crown of his head and Tyki couldn't help the sob that came out. He finally opened his eyes, hoping that bloody vomit covered straitjacket and the basin of teeth were gone. He didn't want to look at them, he might start retching again.

He looked down at his forearms, where they rested on his thighs. The bandages had slipped and he could see blood weeping from his palms. He scratched a little at the edge of one of the bandages and saw a maggot poking out. He scrapped at it, trying to get rid of it but the more of his skin he uncovered, the more the saw the little blighters teaming under his flesh, rippling and wiggling inside his body. He started to claw at partially healed scabs and stitches along his arms, trying to scratch the maggots out. Even as he scraped them onto the floor, they twisted and inched back towards him, trying to climb inside of him again, each one gnashing their silver teeth at him.

He started to pant and whimper as they crawled all over him, coating the floor and multiplying till the fell from the walls and the ceiling. They crawled into his hair and tried to burrow into his face. He started to claw at his cheeks, not wanting to let them get in his eyes but they fell from his forehead, where it throbbed and ached. But the worst were his hands and forearms, every time he opened his skin, maggots would explode out of them, like the black pus from his dream. He wanted it to stop, why wouldn't it stop. God, help him and make it stop!

"Tyki, stop," he heard his brother and saw him wrap his hands around his forearms, trapping them to his thighs, his long fingers like spider legs coming to rest on him. Didn't spiders kill bugs? He tried to calm down but the maggots were mixing with the blood from his arms and walking onto to Cyril's hands, trying to burrow into him.

"But there are maggots," he whimpered, "squirming and chewing and I must be dead and not know it or they wouldn't be eating me."

"No there aren't," he brother said to him and he always trusted that voice but he was so scared. "Look at me," he looked up then back down at his arms, shaking with the effort not to pull away. "Keep looking at me, Tyki," Cyril's voice was soft but commanding. He looked up again and saw tears in his brother's eyes. Tyki had made him cry. He didn't want to make his brother cry. "There are no bugs," he stared straight into Tyki's eyes.

"But, I feel them. I see them, they are all over, you have to believe me," he couldn't take it anymore and started crying in earnest. "Why won't anyone believe me? Please believe me," he sobbed and fell against Cyril, fisting his hands into his shirt. His brother wrapped his arms around him and let him cry. He hadn't cried like this since they had left Ireland and taken the ship to France and he had been so scared he couldn't see straight.

"If you just relax and let me out, they will go away," the Voice in his head told him, sounding almost sad at the state he was in. "You made your brother cry, do you enjoy hurting him like that? Do you like the fact that he is having to give up his dream of school to take care of you? Do you want him to hate you?"

Tyki cried even harder, shaking his head and sobbing, "I'm sorry."

"Then stop fighting me. I'll make it so nothing can touch you, not ever again. Just let me wake up," the Voice was soothing, almost loving as it spoke to him.

"Shh, it's alright, Laddy boy," Cyril held him as he cried and God forgive him, it felt good. It felt so much better to finally admit how scared he was and to stop fighting his tears, even just for a moment, even though he was 15 and shouldn't be crying anymore. He finally got control of himself and moved his face off of his brother's shoulder. Cyril pulled him over so their foreheads were touching and used his sandpaper thumbs to wipe his tears away. Tyki sniffled and could feel his eyelashes touching his brother's. "You feel better?" the exaggerated roll on the R told Tyki just how tired Cyril was.

He shook his head  _yes_ and pulled away. He looked up at his brother and noticed there was blood dripping from his forehead, he raised his hand to clean it off, finally noticing the maggots were gone. "I got blood on you," he apologized. He swiped at it but noticed that Cyril was bleeding. For a split second, he saw his brother with skin as dark as his reflected self and the same band of crosses on his forehead. It should have made him scream but deep down it make him feel not so lonely.  _Dezaiasu,_ he wanted to call and nearly smiled.

Cyril used his sleeve to rub at his head. "I must have been hit by a tooth," he explained and Tyki suddenly felt very tired.

"Sorry."

"That might have been the grossest thing I've ever seen in my life, by the way," Cyril teased, as he rose and draped his coat over Tyki. The salt water, linseed, and tar smell reminding him of home.

"It wasn't much better for me, if it give you any comfort," he mumbled as his brother sat down beside him and he immediately put his head in his lap. Cyril stroked his hair.

"Not really. Try and get some more rest, Laddy," was the last think Tyki heard before he fell asleep and blissfully didn't dream.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Cross sat smoking and pondering the metal bowl full of teeth. In his long and illustrious career as a researcher and eventual Exorcist, he had seen many and varied forms of evil and depravity. Hell, he had taken part in more than a few of them. He had also seen supernatural occurrences that would make most people piss themselves but seeing a 15 year old kid eat nothing but half a bowl of soup then puke up 629 teeth and four quarts of human blood might be the most fucked up thing he had ever seen.

Murphy sat across from him, smoking and sipping his whiskey much the same way. "So that was," he started.

"Unexpected," Cross finished.

"To say the least," Murphy poured them both more liquor. "Do you have any ideas?"

"Not really but we need to keep an eye on the brother too," he said. Cyril Camilote had been a bit of a suprise, though he wasn't really sure what he had been expecting. The man was tall, almost as tall as him, and thin, with long legs like a spider. Father Murphy had been right, his hands were rough as steel wool and he had the telltale wind burn on his nose and cheeks of a sailor, plus the weird rolling gate he associated with them, like they always thought the floor was going to move. His voice had been gravelly, but he hadn't missed the rather ugly scar across the front of his neck. Someone had tried to slit his throat and he had survived. That plus the flat and scared knuckles told him he didn't want to meet the guy in a dark alley or any alley to be honest. Cyril had the dead eyes of a killer.

But then there had been the conversation. He was articulate, calm, and clearly well read, more so than most Exorcists. There was also a coldness about him, a ruthlessness that oozed out of him. The guy's words would probably end up being more dangerous than his fists. And then there was the smoke. He had been smoking when they were talking and he could clearly tell Cyril didn't like it and suddenly it appeared as if there as a wall between Cyril and the smoke. An invisible shield that protected him from the white mist getting close to him. It had been disturbing to say the least.

"Why do you think we need to watch Cyril? I don't think he would hurt his brother."

"I don't think he would hurt Tyki but I suspect that same thing that is wrong with the younger is also affecting the elder, he just isn't showing as many signs or is better at hiding them."

"You saw the blood on his forehead?" Murphy asked.

"Among other things but I think we need to find a way to keep him close by for a while. At least till we figure out what we are dealing with." He hoped Komui got back to him soon.

TBC


End file.
